


Leave all your love and your longing behind

by weepingnaiad



Series: Laundry verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And hot as hell, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton has shitty coping strategies, Clint and Natasha are platonic lifemates, F/M, Fix-It, Get Together, Grief/Mourning, Hawkguy, M/M, Nick Fury is not the asshole everyone believes he is, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 2 Compliant, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint had been through too much, barely recovered from Loki, so Natasha did what she could to protect him during the fall of SHIELD.  If that led to a revelation neither were prepared for, well, they'd handle it just like any other mission: as partners.  Too bad they worked best as a trio; which they proved when organizing the perfect retrieval mission upon learning the news that Agent Coulson's demise was highly exaggerated.</p><p>So what if some people called it "kidnapping".  Some people were stupid.  And Clint and Natasha deserved answers from their zombie former handler.</p><p>Takes place in the same 'verse as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2427695">You can't carry it with you if you want to survive</a>, but it is not necessary to read that to understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for "Leave All Your Love and Your Longing Behind" by Weeping Naiad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111276) by [paleogymnast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast). 



> **Beta:** Could not have done this without [abigail89](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89) and [hitlikehammers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers). They both went above and beyond reading through this multiple times. I will forever be in their debt for their patience and encouragement. Don't know what I did to deserve them, but I'm damned lucky they put up with me. Of course, I fiddle after they're done, so any and all mistakes are on me.
> 
>  **Artist:** I embedded the lovely pieces done for the story, but please go to her post and shower her with love for the gorgeous work!

"'lo?" Clint said and Natasha breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

"Brooklyn's not off the radar," she replied, gritting her teeth together to keep the smile out of her voice.

"Fuck, Tash," he said and she can hear the relief in his tone, the way his voice drops, evens out as his drawl heightens. "What the hell did you do?"

The smile that she'd been holding back surfaced, but before she could answer, Clint rambled on. "Where the fuck are you? The world's gone to shit and I haven't heard a goddamn thing except that one, frankly, terrifying voicemail. We talked about this, remember? You don't pull shit like this without me as backup, dammit!"

Her smile cracked as she pulled her knees to her chest, the pillows at her back offering no warmth. Clint rambled, always did talk too much, but this… the hurt bled through, the worry, fear, all of that was screaming from his words even if he sounded pretty much like usual. But that was no surprise. Clint Barton was a trainwreck at life but he'd had an epically shitty childhood and learned far too early to hide his emotions behind bluster, talk, or flirting. Life on the streets and on the run had honed that tendency and only Natasha's intimate familiarity with all things Clint allowed her to hear everything he wasn't saying. _'You left me.'_

Natasha pulled herself together, wrapped up her own issues tight to shove far away. Clint didn't need her to lose it so she wasn't going to.

"I had backup. I think Cap counts, don't you?" she replied, a smile in her words for all the shit they'd given Coulson about his fascination with one Steven Grant Rogers. Those memories still cut, not as deep as they once did, but she didn't dare share them aloud. Not with Clint. They hadn't talked in far too long, but Coulson would always be a sore point for Clint. Regrets and missed opportunities were for most people who weren't Natasha.

She'd expected him to come back with something and his continued silence, breaths barely audible, gave her pause. "Clint?"

"I'm here," he said, voice roughened, hoarse. Her silent memories had been shared. Clint always was too damn perceptive for his own good.

"I'm sorry," she began, never good at apologies, but she'd worried him, hurt him, and they might not do touchy-feely, but their whole world was gone. She owed Clint for some of the best years of her life.

"Don't."

"I get that you're pissed--"

"Pissed?" He spat out. "Oh, hell no! You don't get to fuckin' torch the world, burn everything to the ground, and piss on the ashes and then think a simple goddamned apology is going to cut it!" He took a breath and Natasha could easily imagine his glare, his arms crossed over his chest, phone between shoulder and ear as he stood at a natural parade rest; the soldier never far from the surface.

She had an unreasonable need to _see_ him, but she wouldn't go to him, not until he invited her. Not until she wouldn't drag trouble with her.

"We did what had to be done. I-I didn't… some things I saved," she offered.

He snorted. "I didn't expect anything else. Who are you for the foreseeable future?"

She wouldn't let the hollow accusation sting. "Not me, Clint. I wiped out Coulson. You. You'll be safe. Until you stick your head out of your shell. Just don't get it blown off."

"Coulson?" The soft way he said Phil's name, the way the syllables bled made her sag, head dropping back against the headboard. "What the fuck?"

She wanted to say that she did it for Clint, that she wanted his heart kept safe from Hydra, that Phil would be crushed if he'd lived to see the poison oozing out of the agency he'd given his life for. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't bear the idea of Phil Coulson tainted by association. And Clint'd had enough shit after Loki. He deserved any break she could offer. She wanted to say the words, but her throat closed up tight.

She was so _tired._

"Tash?" And there was Clint, his voice warm once again. His forgiving nature had screwed him over time and time again, but he never stopped offering himself up anyway. "Why don't you come over? Lucky'd love to see you."

"Clint," she tried to forestall him. "I don't think it'd be a good idea right now."

"I'm not afraid. You need someone to have your back."

"Give me some time."

"You know where I live," he answered, the line going dead.

Well, that went better than she'd expected, worse than she'd hoped. He was safe for awhile. Hopefully he'd stay out of trouble long enough for Natasha to get her own affairs in order. She shook her head and scooted down the mattress, body curling around a pillow. It'd be easy money that Clint would find trouble before she found a new name.

~~*~~

She wasn't wrong about Clint. The man was a trouble magnet without his tendency to stick his nose where it most assuredly did not belong. His place in Brooklyn was just the latest in a string of good intentions gone bad. But Natasha was in no position to judge. She'd jumped without looking, followed Cap without thought and had ended up _here,_ as adrift, lost, and fucking untethered as she'd been since a nondescript man in a suit offered her sanctuary instead of one between the eyes.

She tried to keep her head down, shifting safe houses as often as she could bear. But she was rusty at hiding, even worse at being alone. She'd gone soft, found herself worrying, thoughts drifting to Steve and Sam, Tony and Bruce, Pepper, not to mention Maria and Melinda. Victoria was gone and Isabelle was in the wind. Natasha tried to follow her example, but she'd laid herself bare, ripped herself open from sternum to stern, and she was vulnerable. Weak. Her feet sinking in sand, no solid ground in sight.

So she answered Nick's call too eagerly, and couldn't stop the way her voice pitched high instead of low.

"I have a present for your new best bud," Nick said without preamble.

"I don't have a _new_ best anything, Nick," she replied, holding her breath to keep her voice steady.

"Your partner in crime, then."

"If it's not arrows or a new bow, Clint's not interested, sir," she said, smile coming unbidden.

"Romanoff," Nick chided. "I don't have time for your passive aggressive buillshit. I got a lead on a certain brainwashed assassin. And it'd be for the best if he was found by our side."

Natasha inhaled sharply. She was not ready to face The Winter Soldier, especially knowing he had once been Bucky Barnes. The very idea of what'd been done to him sent her pulse racing; called to mind too many of her own demons that were best left buried. _She_ couldn't go after him, but Steve deserved a chance to save his friend. She'd have to farm this one out.

"I'll let him know," she answered once the silence stretched too long. "How long do we have?"

"Intel indicates he's pretty settled, so you have a few days," Nick answered. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not helping."

"Never expected you to. But Barton might appreciate the chance."

"Why do you think that's remotely a good idea?"

"Because the alternative is a worse idea. Barton's getting restless. You know what happens when he gets stir crazy."

"Bad things."

"Very bad things," Nick said, and just for a moment, Natasha could pretend everything was back to the way it was way. The way it should be, instead of this fucked up, backasswards world.

"I'll leave it to Sam if he needs Clint's help," she conceded, blinking away the longing that made her want to scream.

"You'll have the intel in the usual way."

"Thank you, sir."

"Cut that crap out. I ain't your boss."

She hesitated, couldn't find any words that would do, so opted for silence.

"Hey, hey," Nick said, voice gone gentle, the way he could be, once upon a time, when Natasha had still been skittish and flinching at shadows. "I'm not your boss, but I do consider myself your friend. Be careful out there. Barnes isn't the only one starting over."

"We all are," she replied, voice strangled. _'But to what end?'_

"Hell, that's not so bad. Gave me a chance to explore a new style--"

Natasha snorted, a little gasp of breath at the image of Nick Fury in skinny jeans, sweater and a scarf. _'Oh, God! I have lost it,'_ she thought.

"Don't," he chided, but his tone was warm, welcoming and Natasha wanted to sink into that deep baritone and hide. "I did lose the eye patch, though."

Natasha stilled, forgot to breathe. Imagining Nick without the eye patch was like imagining him without _Phil_ and she was self-aware enough to know she hadn't come close to adjusting to that empty space at Nick's six.

"Think I should start wearing one, then? Maybe I'll look like Madame Kovarian?" she asked to cover the awkward silence, though pulling up obscure Dr. Who references did nothing to make this less awkward.

"Hell no! Don't you do anything that hides those gorgeous green eyes. This fucked up world needs all the beauty it can get."

"Nick," she murmured around the lump in her throat. They didn't do this. They hadn't given in before; SHIELD was no place for romance and love just got you killed. Now was definitely not the time. She didn't even know who she was anymore. Everything had been a lie. She couldn't. No matter how much she bled inside from the wanting, knives shredding her insides, flaying her alive. "Sir," she whispered, broken voice giving up everything.

There was a beat, a quiet swallow, before Nick said, "Okay. But I'll be around. You need _anything_... backup, a shoulder, weapons, intel… just call."

"If I need anything leveled, you'll be the first to know." She couldn't smile, but the knot in her gut loosened just a bit. 

There was a short burst of air, almost a chuckle before the line went dead. The silence was no longer oppressive and dark. It seemed even the shadows were lighter, less haunting.

She was nowhere put back together and she'd have to unravel everything before she could rebuild, but at least she had Nick in her corner. At least she had that to hold on to. And Nick Fury was unstoppable.

~~*~~

Natasha trusted Nick, but she still took the time to do her own research and she confirmed that Barnes seemed to be stationary for the time being.

She called Sam first, and hadn't yet stopped being amazed at the man's capacity for trust after everything that had happened.

"You think Rogers will go off half-cocked and do something stupid, don't you?" was the first thing he asked after Natasha explained why she was calling.

"I didn't say that."

She could hear his eye roll. "You might be a kickass spy lady, but you _suck_ at hiding when it comes to Steve Rogers."

"I'm not--"

"It's okay," he interrupted her protest. "I don't think anyone with a heart can resist him."

"Sam," she said, refusing to plead.

"Goddamn, woman. As if you think I'm capable of resisting _you_ either?" He cleared his throat. "What the fuck is it with all you superpowered types? Something wrong with having a crooked nose or an overbite?" His grin was audible. "Are perfect cheek bones a prerequisite or something?"

Natasha ducked her head and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

"So, you in or not?" she asked.

He snorted. "Like you have to ask."

She could almost hear his stance shift. He took a breath and even the tenor of his voice changed. You could take the man out of the military, but not the military out of the man. "Have you given Rogers these coordinates?"

"Yes."

"So I don't have long. I'm gonna need transport." He sounded thoughtful, the brilliant mind hidden behind his blinding grin already making plans.

"I have a Quinjet."

"What? You? How?" he spluttered. "Don't lie to a guy like that. I meant an SUV or something. Seriously, man. What is it with y'all?"

"Sam," Natasha said, and it was harder than she expected to keep from laughing. "I have a pilot. A friend. Clint Barton."

"Hawkeye?" Sam said. "Well, alrighty then. I think we can do this." He paused. "Wait. How does any of this shit work without SHIELD? And aren't we all supposed to be keeping a low profile?"

Natasha took a long, slow breath. She had no idea how anything was supposed to work without SHIELD, but she'd done this before. So had Clint. They knew how to use what resources they had. "Clint's good. Just keep Rogers from blowing up any more buildings and I think you'll be fine."

"You're not joining us?"

"No," she said. As much as she liked Sam, she didn't owe him an explanation, not one she couldn't even begin to articulate.

"Huh," he said. "Okay. Wish me luck that I don't have to beat some sense into Rogers because I'd fuckin' lose that match."

Natasha couldn't help it, she laughed. "You'd do fine, Wilson."

"You say that now…"

Natasha was smiling. Sam had that way about him. Hopefully, her mood would sustain her through the call to Clint.

It didn't. Clint was uncooperative and sullen. She wanted to reach through the phone and shake him, but that wasn't fair. He was asking to see her, to be allowed to use the one sense that he trusted above the rest. And her own fears shouldn't stop her from giving that to him. So she papered over the cracks; reached back into the dim recesses of her mind to training that she hated to rely on; and she built a facade that should hold. Had to hold. Clint needed her to be who she was before their world fractured. She just wished any of it was real.

~~*~~

Now that she was standing in Clint's apartment held fast in strong arms, her legs threatening to give way, Natasha wondered why she'd bothered to stay away. What she'd really accomplished. Maybe it wasn't about Clint at all. Maybe she'd been punishing herself for failing, for not seeing, for not _knowing_ about the cancer in the heart of her world.

They clung, her arms wrapped tight around Clint's torso, and if her eyes were a bit wet, well, Clint'd never tell. He was sniffling as it was and Natasha wasn't imagining the wetness against her cheek.

"Dammit, Tash," he grumbled when they finally parted.

Damned fool was red-eyed and swiping at his nose and cheeks and all the more perfect for it. He had some bruises on his face that had healed to a faint green, but otherwise he looked healthy and whole. Safe.

"The tip worked?" she asked. "You got out ahead of… of _everything_?"

Clint shook his head and ran his fingers through his already mussed hair. "Sit down. Act like you're going to stay awhile."

He padded on bare feet to the kitchen as she stayed where she was, watching. Reassuring herself.

He cocked his head at her, one eyebrow arching. "Really? The couch doesn't have fleas, Nat. It's safe to sit on."

"I--"

He turned his whole body toward her, hip resting against the counter. "'m not going anywhere." He pointed toward the beaten up sofa. "Sit. We'll talk. Then you can tell me what you need."

"Need?"

He turned back to the coffee maker but not before she caught a glimpse of a smile. So much for her facade being perfect. It probably was, but Clint Barton saw everything, including into the very heart of her. He'd done it in Prague and saved her life. Of course, he'd know something was up.

"I'm not drinking out of the carafe. Pour mine into a mug. A clean one," she said before wrapping her dignity about herself and sitting carefully on the edge of the sofa. It might not have critters, but it definitely had old, worn out springs that tended to grab a body and not let it go.

Clint perched on the arm at the opposite end of the sofa, feet pressing into the cushions while the coffeemaker gurgled and spat. He was sizing Natasha up with that expression that even she had trouble deciphering. She had to use his tells, anything else she had to go on.

"I am sorry, Clint. About SHIELD. But it all happened so fast. I barely managed the phone call."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. "Hell, I'm not mad about that. I appreciate the risk you took leaving me that message. You saved me and a lot of others. That base was overrun with Hydra, but me and the genuine SHIELD agents got the drop on 'em. At least Nick--" he stopped mid-thought. "Oh, shit!" Then slapped a palm over his face. "Fuck!" he swore, words mumbled from behind his hand.

Natasha kneeled up and pulled his hand down. "Hey."

"Dammit, Tash, I'm sorry. I know Nick…"

She shook her head and gave him a soft, small smile. "He's not gone, Clint."

"What?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, well. Thank fuck!" he breathed out. "After… well, _after_ I was pretty sure the laws of nature or something had changed. First… um, well, anyway, and then _Nick._ Gives me hope, knowing that Nick's still out there running SHIELD."

Natasha scooted forward, pressed between his legs to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest; the beat of his heart was a steady, strong cadence. She shook her head. "He's not. There's… there isn't a SHIELD anymore, Clint. It's all gone. Or Hydra."

His arms tightened reflexively, squeezing too tight, then gentling. "Dammit. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

It was the perfect opening. She should say something. She didn't have long and Sam needed Clint there. But maybe she could be selfish for just a bit longer, because she'd been foolish to stay away. 

Clint broke the embrace first. He gave her a concerned frown. "What the fuck?"

"Sorry," she said, pulling back. This wasn't like her.

"No. No," he said, tugging her back as he slid down onto the cushions. "Don't hide. Just talk to me. It's _me_ , Tash. You don't have to hide from me."

She looked at him and couldn't speak around the lump in her throat, tears threatening once again. After an unsteady inhale, she shook her head. "Not hiding. Just… I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Start over again."

"Well, shit, that's easy," he said, voice flippant, face anything but. "We just up and go. You said you wiped me from the servers, and we both have stashes. We just… well, I always did like South America. Chile, maybe? Peru?"

She might be standing on shifting sand, but there was bedrock under it all. Nick. Clint. Hell, even Sam and Steve. For the first time in too long, Natasha actually cracked a genuine smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "How about I lie low while you go help Rogers and Wilson with Barnes?"

"You want me on an op with Captain America and his new BFF?"

She nodded, pleased he wasn't as out of the loop as he pretended.

"I'll bite. Who's Barnes?"

Clint was exhausted, sore, and pissed. He couldn't decide who he was angrier at: Rogers for nearly getting himself killed or Natasha for dragging him into this whole Barnes shit storm in the first place. He'd been grateful to be useful again, glad to have a purpose that had nothing to do with leaky pipes or clogged toilets. That didn't mean he wasn't going to give Natasha an earful when he next saw her.

He opened the door to find Natasha sitting on his couch, her posture rigidly upright.

Clint didn't slam the door, but only because it'd probably pop off the hinges again and he wasn't in the mood to fix it. But he was glaring at Natasha who was giving him a wide-eyed, cautious appraisal.

"You! Dammit, Tash! You didn't tell me that Rogers was crazy stupid hung up on Barnes! He damn near got himself killed! And, then that fucker would have probably come after me and Sam! Next time, don't leave important details like that out of the goddamned briefing!"

"Next time?"

"Oh, fuck you very much," he growled, plopping down onto the sofa with venom, hard enough to cause Natasha to bounce. "You know you'll ask, I'll bitch, but give in. Not like _that's_ changed."

Natasha didn't look at him, but Clint wasn't called Hawkeye for nothing. Besides, he knew Natasha so very well. He could see the way the tension in her spine bled out from a mile away. And damn her, but he couldn't stay mad at her. He sprawled a little, kicked his feet onto the coffee table, stretched his arm along the back of the sofa and cocked his head at her.

Her lip twitched, and she stayed in place for a matter of moments before curling into his side, her arms squeezing viciously tight around his middle.

"Hey, easy now!"

"Clint," she said. "You could have _called._ "

"I could have, but I was too pissed. Knew I'd say something stupid. Hell, I did anyway."

"I'm sorry about Rogers, but I honestly didn't know he was in love with Barnes. I don't think that was in the historical record."

Clint snorted. "No shit. Ph-- Coulson knew _everything_ about Cap, including all about Bucky, but he never said anything about them sharing anything but brotherly love. And believe me, he would have found it if it'd been out there. I think he had a bigger hard-on for Bucky than Cap."

Natasha gave a soundless chuckle and Clint was immeasurably grateful she didn't call him out on his slip. "You are okay, right? Not hiding any broken bones. Or worse?" she asked, cautious.

"Nothing's broken." A couple of fingers prodded his ribs, almost making him laugh. "I'm _fine._ I am." He batted those probing fingers away. "And Sam's cool as hell." His grin widened. "He can _fly,_ Tash."

"Rogers is okay?" she confirmed, because of course she got to know Sam first and had seen him fly. Natasha was like that: cool, pragmatic, cut to the chase. Only one person had been better at keeping Clint's head out of the clouds.

"Yeah. I was pretty sure he wasn't going to be. Goddamn, the blood, Tash! It was _everywhere._ " And Clint couldn't hold back. His voice was one part horrified and one part awe-filled. "That serum shit is unreal."

Natasha didn't comment and he really didn't expect her to. Natasha had a version of the serum coursing through her veins. It was just another of those things from her past that they didn't talk about. And, tired as he was, Clint was more than happy to leave it, to let the comfortable silence reign as he sat here, safe and sound, with the only family he had left.

~~*~~

It started with: "Clint Barton, Marine sniper." 

Was followed by: "Sam Wilson, pararescue."

And Clint couldn't help his gasped out reaction, "HOSHIT, man! You are one badass mother!"

Sam's chuckle was full-bodied, his handshake firm without any of that bullshit posturing. Clint liked him instantly, couldn't help mouthing off, and somehow _that_ led to a team movie night.

And that led to more missions, Hydra popping up like hyped-up gophers pretty much _everywhere._ But they worked well together and even when Tony and, rarely, Bruce, joined in; they were stronger; it didn't fuck up the dynamic. They took down Hydra, watched movies over pizza and beer afterwards. It was damn near a regular thing, which led to Clint on occasion thinking of the tower as home, which was downright weird for him. He didn't 'get comfortable' around strangers. Hell, he wasn't comfortable around most of his _friends._ Too much betrayal in his past had stolen his ability to trust and people didn't warm up to someone who scrutinized their every word and deed as a possible threat.

*~*

"GEEZUS, Barton!"

"What?" Clint turned as Sam settled into the co-pilot's seat and gave him a confused frown.

"Who pissed in your Post toasties?"

Clint's eyes widened. "I'm just flyin' the plane, man."

Sam waved a palm in front of Clint's face. "What's up with this shit?"

"Nah. That's just my face."

"Well, fuck your face. It's terrifying. Thought I was done for," Sam muttered.

Clint laughed. "Nice offer, good lookin', but someone's got to fly this thing."

"Har-har," Sam said, but he was grinning and that made Clint's spine soften just a little bit more.

*~*

Sam was one of the easiest going people Clint had ever met. He had this killer smile and this gentle voice that could pull things out from deep inside without Clint even being aware he'd started speaking. If Natasha and freaking Captain America himself hadn't trusted Sam, it'd be downright scary the way Sam _got_ Clint. And then there was Sam's humor. God. The stories he'd tell! He'd have Clint holding his sides from laughing. And whoever said that laughter was the best medicine knew what they were talking about.

*~*

Clint was gasping for breath and trying not to look at Sam or he'd lose it again.

"Hey, share with the class, birdbrains. What's the joke?" Tony asked, setting off another round of laughter.

"Ow! Fuck, man! That hurts! Stop it, Barton!"

Clint wheezed out, "Not doin' shit, man. It's your fuckin' story! You tell 'm!"

"Well, there was this [llama--](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1479403)1" Sam started and that was it. Neither of them could breathe for laughing.

Tony's face only made it worse.

And if later their peals of laughter ended in heaving breaths made worse by Tony's grimace and Steve's confused puppy face all stemming from Steve's simple, "What's an alpaca?" Well, laughter healed as well as time.

*~*

The best part about Sam, beyond all of the other shit, was their instant shorthand. From that first fucked up mission, he and Clint spoke the same language, didn't have to spell things out. They clicked, complemented each other's skills, worked together like they'd been doing it for years. Sam was the first person since Natasha that Clint could say that about. Even Phil -- _Coulson,_ Clint had to fucking learn how to compartmentalize -- had taken a lot of time and a shit ton of abrasion before their edges fit seamlessly and they worked well together.

*~*

"Corner, Hawkeye!" Sam shouted into the comm.

Clint shifted his position, took out running across the roof and leapt into space. The explosion -- fucking evil scientists -- blew him into Sam's waiting arms.

"Oof!" Clint grunted as the breath was knocked out of him and Sam's momentum stalled.

"Better lay off the beer, Hawkeye. You're getting fat!"

"Fuck you! I'm just dense."

"You can say that again, Hawkeye," Tony snarked over the comms.

"Focus," Steve--no, _Captain America_ \--chided.

"Yes, Daaaad," three voices echoed in unison and Clint swore he heard Natasha chuckle, but it was too quiet for him to be sure.

*~*

And that was the last thing about Sam, the thing they'd bonded over without words, like calling to like; two broken mimes feeling along the walls of an invisible box. Loss. Grief so all encompassing it ate them up inside, was a raging maelstrom, a void of hurt and anger that threatened to drag them under. Late at night, when the only light in the dark was an endless movie with the sound turned low, Clint had glimpsed Sam's pain and shared his own; hollowed out eyes staring into the past, guilt tangled up in regret. Those moments cemented their friendship, created a bond that puzzled even Natasha. Steve, of anyone, should get it, but he was too wrapped up in his own issues. His grief was no longer buried, his regret was out in the open and walking around; had tried to kill him twice now.

*~*

"Beer or bourbon?" Sam said, his voice dragging Clint from his thousand mile stare.

He looked up at Sam, blinked slowly, still not all in the here and now.

"Bourbon it is," he said, setting the _Buffalo Trace_ on the coffee table. "You joining us, Rogers?" he asked over Clint's head and if that didn't say a shit ton about where Clint's mind was, nothing did. He hadn't heard Steve at all.

"No thanks. I'm… I'm going down to the gym," Steve replied, his voice no less weary than Sam's. But whatever. Not like any of them weren't affected by the death of civilians. That kid was just misguided and scared as fuck. That he'd been used by Hydra and then discarded stung all the more.

"Fuck," Clint swore taking a drink straight from the bottle. It was going to be that kind of night.

*~*

Steve would understand if he wasn't blinded by guilt, but he was more crippled by loss, more ravaged by his present than anyone Clint'd ever met. How he was still standing under the burden, Clint couldn't fathom. Sam and Clint were two broken soldiers, unremarkable, their fate the collateral damage of war, not a badge of honor, but Steve's story was near mythical, epic in scope, and a testament to why Steve Rogers was the best man Clint had ever known. He'd always believed Phil saw Steve through rose-tinted glasses, that no one could be that perfect, but now that he lived with the man, he knew Phil was right, as pragmatic as ever. And Phil would get a kick out of finding out that underneath that schoolboy smile Steve was a stubborn, sarcastic little shit that wasn't intimidated by Tony in the least.

*~*

"They're _socks,_ Tony," Steve said, voice dry as dust. "You wear them on your feet."

"Well, duh. But what are you _doing_ to them?" Tony asked and he sounded genuinely mystified.

Clint snorted into his palm to keep from saying anything. Sam nudged him in the ribs and his expression said all that needed to be said.

"Doing?" Steve said. "I am darning them."

"Darning? Like fixing?"

"No, Tony. Like swearing at them."

And there was no way to keep from breaking out laughing then.

*~*

And thanks to Tony's generosity, Clint found himself living with a team of fucked up misfits, including one not-quite monster who was outwardly the most serene guy Clint had ever known. And Clint knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. But he _was_ wary. In his experience things that seemed too good to be true always were. But he wasn't going to completely deny himself the pleasure of living in Stark Tower. Its gifts were a cornucopia of luxuries: a never empty pantry, an unending supply of the latest media, an epic gym and an honest to god obstacle course which happened to be the best archery range he'd ever trained on. It could all be a little overwhelming, a little too much sound and light and tech and he'd need to leave, retreat to his rundown apartment with its noisy pipes and threadbare furniture. It wasn't that Clint was ungrateful for Stark's benevolence and generosity. It wasn't that Clint didn't like everyone at the tower.

Clint just needed space to breathe. A chance to regroup.

If that space meant that he could take out Phil's dog tags and wallow, then there'd be no one -- no, _Natasha_ \-- to call him out on it. He could openly feel every last bit of remorse and grief for all that he'd lost, even if it was never his to begin with. And that, right there was the reason he didn't dare think about Phil while he was at the tower. He might slip. He might reveal that he wasn't as healed as he'd led Natasha to believe. And he really didn't want to face up to that. Didn't want to chance Natasha thinking he'd lied to her.

He liked his balls where they were. Besides, the lie was finally becoming more truth than not. He was living an impossibility. And sometimes he wondered if he could still be under Loki's thrall, that he wasn't as sane as the shrinks had declared him. But then he'd hold thin metal in his palms, feel their edges cut into flesh and he'd know there would be no easy tenor in his ear again, no soft banter. Phil was still gone, so this had to be reality, his living hell. And maybe this life was nothing he ever could have imagined, but he was smart enough to accept it, to embrace it and to gleefully join in whenever Tony called.

When Lucky was welcomed by Jarvis and Steve saved Natasha's laundry from Clint's well-meaning 'help', then _home_ was as good a word as any to describe the tower. And maybe super-powered friends weren't so bad to have in Clint's corner.

~~*~~

"Katniss!"

Clint did not turn, just kept tending breakfast.

"Legolas!"

Tony's steps moved closer, but Clint continued to ignore him.

"Locksley!"

Tony was almost next to Clint.

"You know, maybe Clint'd respond if you bothered to use his name," Bruce said from the doorway, tone as dry as the Sahara.

Clint smiled, head cocked as he turned to greet Bruce with a plate of pancakes. "Bruce! Mornin'!"

Bruce's eyes twinkled as he took the plate. "Thanks."

"Fixin's are on the table," Clint said before turning back to the stove.

"Hey! What about me?"

Clint busied himself with flipping pancakes and pouring batter while Tony huffed at the coffee maker.

"Dammit!" he swore. Clint watched in his periphery as Tony fussed with a mug before slouching against the counter. "Fine. You win." Tony raised one hand, the other not releasing his mug. " _Barton,_ after breakfast would you -- _please_ \-- drag that very fine ass of yours down to the lab?"

"Tony," Clint greeted, plating pancakes for Tony and Sam. "Mornin'!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

Clint did not smile, but it was a close thing. He kept his 'resting' face in place as he held out the plates. "After breakfast? I can do that, Stark," he said, pausing. "Since you asked _nicely_ and all."

Tony glared at the plates, then at his mug, came to some conclusion and took both plates and his mug into the dining room.

Natasha's chuckle from behind Clint nearly made him drop the spatula. "Dammit, Tash! Gonna put a bell on you!"

"Morning," she said, laughter in her eyes, one eyebrow raised as she hopped onto the island. Clint shook his head and returned to the last of the pancakes. No matter how hard he tried, he'd never get the last word around this lot.

~~*~~

"You wanted to show me something?" he asked, stepping into the lab once Jarvis cleared him.

"Hey, William Tell!" Tony greeted, voiced muffled. He didn't bother to look up from the multitude of screens he was flipping through.

And Clint had half a mind to turn around and leave. It must have shown on his face because Bruce called to him, "Hey, Clint. Ignore him. He's just frustrated because SHIELD tech is thwarting him."

"Not _thwarting,_ Brucie. Nothing _thwarts_ me. it's just taking a bit longer…" his voice trailed off mid-sentence.

"SHIELD?" Clint asked, gut lurching. "I thought--"

"SHIELD was gone?" Bruce finished. "It is. But Tony took it personally that he missed the whole Hydra infestation the first time he hacked in, so now he's going through everything--"

"Not _hacked,_ dammit. I am not a hacker! That's so 90s."

Clint was about to laugh at Tony and point out that he was clearly the textbook example of a white hat hacker when Bruce shook his head at Clint. He indicated that Clint follow him to a corner of the lab out of sight of Tony's hunched over form. And before Clint could dwell on just what Tony was doing, what he might _find,_ Bruce was pressing the most beautiful piece of curved wood that he'd ever held into Clint's hands.

Clint forgot to breathe.

If he lost himself in the draw and release, in the caress of wood, resin, and composites against his palm, in the sharp vibration of a perfect string, then so be it. The mere mention of SHIELD wasn't going to break Clint. Not now. He'd clawed his way up out of hell before and he wasn't going to let this be a setback. It'd take some time and some work to keep it together. He didn't shoot until his fingers bled. Natasha would never let him get away with that. She might not be in residence, but Steve and Sam were. And Sam was too damned perceptive for Clint to get anything past him.

So he lovingly cleaned and packed up his new bow with fatigued, but steady hands. And no one was the wiser about the turmoil eating at his insides. He needed to run, wanted to flee so he could pick up the pieces of his shattered soul once again. But instead he found himself agreeing to takeout and a horror movie marathon. He apparently could deny Sam nothing. Just what he needed. Another platonic lifemate who knew him better than he knew himself.

If, in the darkest hour of the night, he gave in to the ache and pulled out the chain at his neck, well, Sam was asleep and the screams from the movie would muffle his shaky breath.

Clint stared at Phil's dog tags laid flat on his palm. He wondered when the mention of SHIELD would stop hurting. Phil had been gone for nearly two years. Surely the wound festering in his gut should be healed by now? As he stared, he missed Sam shift, was startled by his quiet words.

"There's no timetable to grief, Clint."

Clint's breath hitched and his throat closed tight. If he said anything, he'd probably start crying. _Fuck._

"There's no wrong way to mourn. But it does help to talk about it."

"I-I can't," Clint gasped out.

"It gets easier," Sam coaxed.

Clint shook his head. "It's not… not that. He-he wasn't mine to mourn."

Sam's hand was heavy on Clint's shoulder, but its weight was warm and reassuring, kept him from flying to pieces. "If he was here right now, would he call you a friend?"

Clint curled his hand tight into a fist, let the tags bite into calloused skin. Phil had always made time for Clint. He was the first person who'd valued Clint's opinion and said that he worried about Clint. Clint had been head over heels for the guy, but did Phil consider Clint a friend?

"Yeah, yeah, I think he would," Clint said, shaky at first, but ending with conviction.

"Then he _is_ yours to mourn. We're allowed to mourn our friends. We need to, to heal."

"How'd you get so smart?" Clint asked. It was a stupid question, but it needed asking.

Sam laughed. "I screwed up enough times that something finally had to sink in."

Clint nearly laughed. "Fuck," he swore.

"Anytime, night or day, you want to talk, I'm here to listen." Sam moved his hand and Clint missed its grounding weight.

"Thanks, man. I-I-I'm not ready, you know?"

"No pressure," Sam said, then stood. "But I do feel pressure that needs relieving and a back that's crying for one of Stark's ridiculous beds."

"Go. I'm… the movie's not over."

"You're not really gonna finish that stinking pile of shit, are you?"

Clint snagged the remote and flipped to _Dog Cops_. "Nope. I've got something good to watch."

"Whatever floats your boat. Night, man."

"Night, Sam," Clint said, surprised to find that he'd let go of Phil's tags without thought. Just maybe he could let go of Phil, too.

Clint knew when Natasha had worked through whatever was going on with Fury because she showed up at Clint's apartment with a soft smile and her hair the deep, wavy red Nick had always complimented. Clint gave her a cheeky grin and she slapped his arm before hugging him.

"Shut up," she murmured into his neck.

"Not on your life. Gonna relish saying 'I told you so' over and over," he teased, hugging her tight.

"Fuck you," she said without heat.

Clint hadn't seen that light in her eyes for far too long. But this was Natasha, she didn't spare him any time for sentiment.

"So why're you hiding?"

"'m not," he answered, the urge to cross his arms in front of him near irresistible.

She slapped the back of his head. "Idiot," she said, but the fondness was clear in her tone. "Don't lie to me. It's useless."

He'd never been that good at lying to Natasha. It took a level of effort he didn't feel like expending. Still, he wasn't about to admit how unnerved he was. "Not hiding, _ma'am,_ " he repeated, goading; hoping she'd be distracted by the ploy.

She wasn't.

Natasha gave him an unimpressed glare, dragged him to the sofa where she wrestled him into submission. If he confessed his unease at his traitorous heart, she didn't laugh, didn't denigrate his confusion.

"Sam's a great guy. He's hot, too. Nothing wrong with finding him attractive, Solnyshko," she said simply.

Clint swallowed and shook his head. "I don't… how… dammit, Nat!" he stuttered. "Phil was… I loved him. That's--"

She wrapped him up and held him as he shuddered around the words that he couldn't dredge up.

"Phil was special. The first guy, hell, probably the first person _ever_ that you could trust, Clint. He'll always have that place. But it's okay to find someone else. You're allowed to be happy, too."

Clint sighed, snuggled into her hold, soothed.

Of course Clint's life wasn't a _Lifetime_ movie, so that's when all hell broke loose and he ended up dragging Natasha into his micro war with the assholes terrorizing his neighbors.

And when all of that mess was more or less resolved, Clint found himself tongue tied and making an idiot of himself in front of Cap. But they laughed themselves silly and Clint swore he could feel the hole in his heart healing.

~~*~~

With things more settled in his head, Clint allowed himself to enjoy the tower and the team. He shot his bow, regularly sparred with Nat, spent time in the lab keeping Bruce company, and marathoned shitty television with Sam. Tony was obsessed with something he wasn't talking about and rarely surfaced until it became imperative to introduce Steve to Dr. Who.

That weekend helped Clint find his equilibrium around Cap. There'd probably always be a bit of awkwardness there because of Phil, but that was all on Clint and Steve didn't need to be burdened with any more of Clint's past.

But Clint couldn't know just how hard his past was about to bite him in the ass…

And just when he was getting comfortable, too.

~~*~~

Clint was sitting next to Natasha waiting for their pedicures to dry when he broached the subject. "You'll tell me if this is me being paranoid, right?" He looked at his newly buffed nails to avoid Natasha's knowing gaze.

"Mmmm?" she hummed, her eyes still looking through some high-powered financial magazine. _What the hell, Tash?_

He cricked his neck but didn't look up. "It's just… does it ever seem like JARVIS hesitates around you? Like he wants to say something, but reconsiders?" The very idea sounded worse out loud than it had in his head. 

"Never mind. Forget it. That's _stupid._ " Clint trusted his instincts. They'd kept him alive against steep odds, but JARVIS was a computer. A series of ones and zeros. It can't _want,_ or feel.

"Hang on a minute," Natasha stopped his thoughts, her fingertips light on his forearm.

He glanced up into Natasha's green eyes to find understanding. "I hadn't thought of it like that, but yeah. Now that you say it… that does seem like what's been going on."

"What do you think it is?"

"No clue," she said, standing. "But I know how to find out."

~~*~~

_"Phil Coulson is alive."_

Four words. Six syllables. And Clint was cut to ribbons, shredded. Any pretense he'd had that he was healed shattered. His carefully rebuilt psyche was scattered in reflective, glinting shards, too many of them tinted blue.

He couldn't do this here. He _wouldn't._ Fuck if he'd let them -- let anyone -- see just how bad it was.

Disbelieving and hopeful at once, Clint took the StarkPad Tony handed him. He flipped through a few of the screens, his body coiling tighter and tighter as one after another image confirmed that it was Phil, or a damn near perfect doppelganger. The last image included a very recognizable Melinda May and that said it all, made all the drawn up tension snap.

"Fury!"

Without another word, he shoved past Natasha and ran.

~~*~~

Natasha didn't say anything. One hand gripped the door frame, the other curled and flexed against air. After a quick glance to verify that Steve wasn't lying, she kept her eyes glued to Clint. He made a wounded noise, body gone rigid, eyes wild as he scanned the tablet. She flinched away from the accusation in his single-word exhalation, then moved too slow to follow as he rushed by.

JARVIS didn't stop Clint's descent and Natasha was forced to wait or chase him down sixty-five flights of stairs. She waited and only allowed herself a moment of weakness once she was alone in the elevator. After a steadying breath, she indulged one thought, a fond, _'Nick, what the fuck?'_ before re-grouping. Clint was never easy to track down when he didn't want to be found, but this news had sent him careening off half-cocked. He shouldn't be hard to tail. She'd give him time and then they'd make a plan together. Because fuck if she wasn't going to confront goddamned perfect _Agent_ Phillip J. Coulson.

Either Natasha had gotten soft, or Clint had been holding out on her. He vanished into the crowd before she made street-level and two hours later found her foot sore and truly pissed. She wasn't exactly sure at who, probably herself most of all but with Tony and his big mouth drawing a close second. Her arm ached from where she'd dug out her tracker and she wanted to curl up into a ball and lick her wounds, not be chasing all over the length and breadth of freaking Manhattan.

She'd been tempted to ask JARVIS to track Clint, but that would get back to Tony and none of this was Natasha's secret to share. Besides, it was highly unlikely that Clint hadn't removed his tracker. Out of options and tired, she headed for Clint's apartment. She didn't expect him there yet, but he'd show up eventually. No matter what shit was going through his head, he'd need clothes, weapons, ID.

Turned out she was wrong. Clint beat her to his place. She learned this the hard way: by having Clint flip her the instant she opened the door. She landed wrong and had the breath knocked out of her when she collided with the floor and Clint's knee.

When she could breathe again, she went limp under Clint and opened her eyes at him. "I yield," she said, voice rough.

"How long?" he growled, palm slapping the floor by her face, his knee digging into her ribs, her wrists caught in one hand.

She stiffened, hoping that she misunderstood. "How long what, Clint?"

He went cold above her, the banked fury in his face shifting to a bleak winter, a flicker of deep hurt gone in a flash. She was gazing up at Clint Barton as she'd never known him: hard, closed off, deadly. There was no warmth to him, no softness, nothing she could grasp of her _brother._

She swallowed, licked her bottom lip and tried to find a way to make him believe her.

"I didn't know," she said.

"Bullshit!" he shouted, a hand moving to her neck. "Nick… _fuck!_ Fury, he wouldn't lie to you. Wouldn't keep this from _you_." 

She didn't fight him as his hand tightened. She couldn't. She had been betrayed, but she had never expected honesty. She didn't believe in it and Nick… everyone traded in lies.

"I didn't know," she gasped out.

Clint jumped up, threw himself far away from her, hunched into himself across the room, palm flat on the wall as his shoulders shuddered. Her lungs wheezed and she turned to her side, lifted to an elbow and winced. "Clint," she said, voice cracked, hoarse.

"We can make a plan. Find out--"

"Fuck it! No!" he burst out, whirling. In that moment he was unstoppable, an avenging angel, eyes on fire, whole body tensed for battle. But it didn't last, he couldn't sustain the anger, not when the hurt bled through every crack.

She kneeled up, cleared her throat and approached. She reached for him and he fell into her arms, every line of him sagging like a marionette whose strings were cut. "Sorry, Solnyshko, I didn't know. But we can. We can confront--"

They stumbled to the sofa, Clint shaking his head with every staggered step.

Gritting her jaw, Natasha shoved him down, then followed, her fingers forcing him to meet her eyes. "We're not running. Not from this. We deserve answers and we'll have them."

He tried to protest, tried to duck away from her gaze, but she wasn't having it. " _You_ deserve to know. And it's best to get it from the horse's mouth."

"Wouldn't that be _Fury_?" he snarled.

Natasha grinned, shark-toothed sharp. "Oh, that one's _mine._ "

Clint swallowed, the fire gone from wide blue eyes. He looked so damn lost and hurt Natasha wanted to drop napalm on the world.

"What first?" he asked, willing to be led, needing to be given orders and Natasha nodded.

"Reconnaissance."

~~*~~

Reconnaissance proved to be more difficult than Natasha had expected. Phil -- _Director_ \-- Coulson himself was out there somewhere keeping SHIELD alive, or rebuilding. Natasha still wasn't sure what she thought of that idea. On the one hand, SHIELD had been home. Nick and Phil had taken a chance on her, had given her a second chance, a life she'd thought she could stand tall living.

But what SHIELD had been, in truth… well she'd been living the biggest lie of her life.

And she'd burned it all to the ground, thrown the doors wide open, shone a light in the deepest recesses of her home, only to see the cancer had eaten everything from the inside out. There wasn't anything left _to_ save.

So what was Phil doing? And why?

She refused to consider that he was Hydra, that'd he'd ever been anything but the unfailingly honest, dedicated company man she'd known and trusted.

But whatever he was doing, he'd gathered a good team around him. Only Phil could have coaxed Melinda back into the field, so it made sense that he'd snagged SHIELD's best and brightest, but Natasha only recognized one other face in the files Tony'd found: Grant Ward. And he'd never impressed Natasha. There was just something about him she didn't like. No one was that bland and still perfect at their job. Plus he'd been one of Garrett's and for that reason alone Natasha had never trusted him. The confirmation that'd he been a Hydra mole all along sent a sharp jolt of pity for Phil that she quickly suppressed. Served him right for not being straight with them.

She swore as the trail she'd been following practically dried up before her eyes. Whoever Phil had on his team now, one of them was a damned good, no, _great_ hacker. And she was back to square one.

"How's it going, Tash?" Clint interrupted her cursing.

She glared up at him as he looked over her shoulder.

"That bad, huh?"

"His tech guy's good," she said. "Is that Thai?"

Clint grinned and lifted the bag from where heavenly smells emanated. "Tom Yum, Green Curry chicken, Pad Thai, and satay."

"I could kiss you!" Natasha's stomach growled.

She kept poking at the laptop while they ate, until Clint rapped on the table. "Hey. Give it a rest."

"I know I'm close."

"Want me to take a look?"

Natasha just looked at him. 

"Don't give me that. You're good at all the patterns and following a trail, but I know Phi-- Coulson."

Natasha turned the laptop around. "Have at it."

"Whatcha' got?"

"Traces. A few tracks. Some chatter on some SHIELD boards." She slurped the last of her soup, then said, "He's recruiting."

"What?" Clint looked betrayed.

"Hydra did a lot of damage, took out too many good agents, but Coulson's trying to gather up the ones still out there."

"What about--"

"Us?" she asked, sarcasm heavy in that single syllable. "We're not SHIELD. We're Avengers."

"Fine. Whatever. I still know him, Tash. If he's recruiting… show me."

She took over the keyboard and pulled up the intel. "He's in Europe now, but I don't know if he's in Belgium or Frankfurt."

"There aren't that many flights back to the states," he said. "And you know he prefers British Airways or Lufthansa over any US airline."

Natasha smiled. In a few keystrokes, she'd tapped into the databases for both airlines. "Got him!"

Clint grinned. "Guess I'm driving?"

"You bet your ass."

~~*~~

Phil was off his game. It was too easy for Natasha to join the crowd of passengers heading to the airport exit until she was behind him, her small, ceramic pistol pressed to his ribs.

He stiffened, took one brief sideways glance at Natasha, then he relaxed, his gait never faltering. "Good afternoon, Ms. Romanoff."

"Afternoon, _Director,_ " she replied. "Your car is waiting."

He hesitated at the curb, eyes wide as Clint moved gracefully from the open door of the limo to the driver's side. "Mack?" he asked. "My _actual_ ride?" he clarified.

Natasha moved forward, crowding him into the car. "He's fine," she reassured. He'd get out of the ropes before they made the state line.

As Clint pulled into traffic the barrier slid up, cutting them off, leaving them in stilted silence. Natasha could deal with silence, was quite comfortable with saying nothing, but Clint could not. She knew he was listening. She'd hoped for more than this awkward silence; she'd relied on an apology forthcoming or a ready explanation at the very least. But Phil was sitting quietly, stubbornly refusing to break the stalemate.

It spoke to her level of compromise that they were cruising on the highway before she noticed the changes in Phil; the wear at his edges, the deep lines cut into his face from more than jet lag. His eyes were steady, and calm as he regarded Natasha, their blue a muted, sad gray. Despite the appearance that he was solely focused on Natasha, his attention wandered; often drawn to the privacy screen, though only someone as keenly observant _as_ Natasha would have caught him.

So there was some hope there. A small spark of it at least.

Natasha was tempted to check out the bar, but somewhere along the way she'd vowed to be fully engaged for the duration of this encounter and that meant fully sober.

"I should check in," Phil finally said, shattering the stand-off.

"No need," Natasha said. "Mack knows you're with me. And I promised Melinda you'd be returned in good working order."

 

"She _knew_ about this?"

Instead of answering, Natasha cocked her head at Phil. "You look like shit, sir." She leaned forward, tapped a rhythm on the glass and the limo immediately changed lanes.

"Mel-- Agent May won't stop just because it's you. Let me call," he asked, voice cracking. "I don't want anyone to get hurt," he insisted.

Natasha shook her head, then gave him a sharp smile, eyes blazing. "Don't worry about _us._ We can take care of ourselves."

Phil's lips thinned, but he didn't argue. "You don't need to do this."

"Do what?" she asked, voice playing at soft. "We just want to spend time with an old friend."

He sagged, eyes closing, head dropping to the leather seat. "Natasha," he whispered.

"No."

"What do you want from me?" he asked, voice like gravel.

"Nothing," she said, brutal in her honesty. "I thought you were different. It's nice to know that nothing and no one ever changes, just the name on the door." She loathed that her voice cracked at the end.

But Clint, bless him and perfect timing, slammed on the brakes, jolting them both and shattering the moment.

Clint hopped out, chirping a forced, falsely cheerful, "We're here!" fooling no one, but giving Natasha the moment she needed.

"Come along, Director," Natasha urged. "Your safehouse awaits."

He sighed, but followed Natasha without comment.

For all she'd planned everything to the last detail, it was clear that the plan was shot. Frustration and baseless fury swamped her as she met Clint's eyes. He sat Phil's bags on the sidewalk with an impassive glance before driving away; Phil's eyes following until he rounded the corner.

"We should get inside," she prodded. A limo dropping off passengers in the affluent suburb was nothing unusual, but lingering in the front yard would be.

Phil shouldered his bag and followed Natasha in.

"What now?" he asked, resigned.

"You look like you could use a shower and some shuteye."

"That's not why you brought me here." He was still worn as fraying denim, but that renowned core of steel held him upright, kept him focused.

She leaned against the wall opposite from him, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared. She refused to do this without Clint.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath -- centered himself -- then opened his eyes and met her glare. "I'm sorry. Is that what you want? An apology? A punching bag? What?"

She snorted, then shook her head. "You are a piece of work, Coulson. A giant bag of dicks is how Tony'd refer to you and I'm inclined to agree. For that alone, I should deck you."

The only indication that her words had any impact was the way his jaw tightened. He kept himself loose and open, willing to go along. For now. But she wasn't about to underestimate Phil Coulson. He himself had taught her that lesson too many years ago. She found her eyes lingering as they waited, neither willing to move first. And her mind drifted, wandered into territory best left unwalked. Had he ever considered her a friend? As anything more than an asset? Was that all just part of his persona as her handler?

Swallowing, she pushed away from the wall. "Make yourself comfortable. We'll return you when we're satisfied."

He frowned, but did not argue; his shoulders slumped as he padded down the hall.

Releasing a pent-up breath, she collapsed onto the plush sofa to wait. A muffled curse from Phil made her smile. He might have a damned prodigy hacker, but they had Tony Stark and nothing Phil did was going to get a signal past Stark's tech.

~~*~~

Clint ditched the car in the woods of Virginia, making sure that it'd be days before the limo was discovered. He didn't give a damn about SHIELD property and would have driven that damn thing off a cliff, but Natasha had insisted that he behave. If he was slightly more passive aggressive with that request than he'd normally be, well fuck them all. Especially fuck Phil Coulson and his damned blue-gray eyes and perfect fucking suits!

Clint walked the ridge line until he came to the beaten up panel van he'd left parked on a rough dirt road near a fishing hole. He'd argued with Natasha about the location, but he was grateful for the distance and the time it'd take to return to suburban Maryland. He could barely breathe even now and he'd had a good solid hour to recover from the glimpse -- a single, fucking glimpse of Phil Coulson and he was a basket case shaking as bad as a wino with the DTs.

He drove carefully, wasn't in a hurry. Natasha would corral Coulson and right now Clint couldn't deal, couldn't even _think_ for how his heart was stuttering and his brain was fizzing like Alka Seltzer. He needed to get his shit together or this was all going to hell before he'd be able to get two words out.

He came to the turn off for the high-priced neighborhood and debated driving on by. Natasha would forgive him. Eventually. She'd have to find him first.

But he considered Sam and Cap and Bruce and even Tony. And he didn't want to run, dammit. The problem was, he didn't want to have this confrontation, either. Fuckin' Sam and goddamned _"closure."_ He didn't need closure. He was better, dammit. This was just a minor setback.

But his heart hadn't slowed since he'd seen Phil walking out with Natasha and he was gripping the steering wheel so tight his palms ached; his leg tapping at a fast clip. He forced a long, slow breath in as spots starting dancing across his vision. And fuck! He was hyperventilating while driving and, goddammit, but he wasn't about to give fucking Phillip J. Coulson the satisfaction of losing control of the van!

He held his breath for a count of sixty, then exhaled. Repeated twice. The spots cleared and he turned. He could do this. He _had_ to.

~~*~~

Instead of pacing, Natasha puttered in the kitchen, making sandwiches and coffee. It kept her hands busy. They'd be hungry soon enough. Phil probably already was, not that she should care.

Phil cleared his throat, and Natasha turned to see him wearing thick-rimmed glasses, worn jeans, and a very old t-shirt, one that she recognized all too well. The insignia was faded and barely visible but she knew its lines by heart. If she squinted, she could still see the stain at the shoulder from Clint's blood.

"Natasha," he said.

She shook her head. "Help yourself. The coffee's fresh." Then, she walked away; her breathing too unsteady and fuck him anyway for wearing _that._ They'd nearly lost Clint that day. Phil's dress shirt and jacket had gone to bandages and packing and all he'd had was the t-shirt he'd had on underneath his shirt.

The smell of coffee chased her into the living room. She didn't turn as Phil set two cups down on the coffee table.

"I _am_ sorry, Natasha."

"With all due respect, sir… fuck you." Her anger was all she had to hold on to at the moment. Anything else was a slippery slope that'd leave her flattened at the bottom.

She heard him approach but couldn't bring herself to run again. He didn't touch, just stepped beside her and stared out the backdoor at the pool. "I wanted to tell you," he offered.

"Forgive me for not believing you. Seems like two years would have provided at least one opportunity, if you'd truly wanted me… _us_ to know."

"You're right. I didn't--"

Turning, she glared at him. "Don't. We'll have this conversation once Clint is back. Not before." She did walk away then. She had to before she threw herself in his arms and wanted things she couldn't have.

"It's not what you think," he said to her retreating back.

She snorted. _That's what they all said._

~~*~~

After another hour'd passed, she began to swear at Clint, afraid that he'd turned tail and fled. He'd promised her he could hold it together, that he wouldn't leave her to deal with this alone, but he'd been gone nearly two hours and Natasha was climbing the walls. She kept circling the living room, her heart leading her in, only for her head to make her turn away.

Phil sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed and seemingly relaxed except he was no more relaxed than Natasha was.

She heard the panel van before the garage door and rushed to the kitchen to greet her partner with a heated glare. But he already looked like a kicked puppy and she'd no more hurt him when he was down than she'd hurt herself. Though she did wonder yet again why she'd decided this was such a great idea.

"Hey," Clint said, sheepish and quiet.

"Hey yourself, jackass. You could have called." She stepped into his arms and squeezed tight.

"Forgot the number," he mumbled into her hair, his embrace strong and reassuring, even though his heart was unsteady and his breathing was too fast. 

"Breathe, Solnyshko, breathe."

"Trying here."

"Barton, counted breaths. On my mark." Phil's voice grounded them both, steadied Natasha and helped Clint gain a foothold. Soon enough, Clint was breathing normally, standing on his own. 

But Phil. That he still had that kind of power over both of them was not good. They were both so fucked.

When Clint finally looked up, met Phil's eyes, the world stopped. And as stupidly cliché as that sounded, that is exactly what it felt like, even from the outside.

Natasha'd always known how Clint felt about Phil. It'd been a constant. It'd been the thing that had attracted her interest as an exploit, but it was different than anything she'd known before. Clint's feelings were the most unselfish she'd ever known. For Phil's part in this whole sordid tale, she'd always thought his feelings for Clint went far deeper than that of a handler and friend. But watching them in this instant after all the time and the lies, well now, she wasn't sure about anything. Except she wanted answers for herself and maybe Clint'd find his along the way.

"Clint," she interrupted, drawing his attention.

He started, but focused on her. "Yeah?"

"We don't have too long."

He snorted. "May's good, but Stark's better."

She smiled with him before turning to meet Phil's eyes. "I suggest we take this to the living room."

Phil shrugged, but led the way.

Natasha gripped Clint's hand and tugged him forward. "We got this."

He shook his head. "No, we don't. But that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Clint."

"Don't worry, Tash. I'm not going to do anything rash."

"Took you long enough to get back." She knew better than to start something that would force him to be defensive, so punctuated the rebuke with a slap to the back of the head.

He squawked, but gave her a sheepish grin. "Wasn't _my_ over-the-top plan."

"No, but you're the one who insisted on the distance."

"Better that than me driving the fuckin' limo over a cliff!" he growled as they walked into the living room.

"Clint?" Phil asked, stopping mid-step toward Clint, his hand outstretched and that little frown of concern marring his forehead.

"Fuck you, Coulson," Clint replied, brushing past Phil and throwing himself onto the large chair, arms crossed over his chest, heels banging loudly on the coffee table as he deliberately planted them there. His body radiated anger and his face was coolly blank, but his eyes... oh, the pain.

Natasha sighed, but settled on the end of the sofa closest to Clint, her feet tucked under her.

Phil didn't sit. He stood, arms loose at his side, face stuck in boring accountant nothing-to-see-here mode, but he was fraying, worn at the ends, exhausted and gray.

And Natasha was suddenly angry. She inhaled a shaky breath and shook her head before nudging Clint's foot with her toe.

When he didn't say anything, just turned his glare on her, she rolled her eyes. "I'm not a goddamned therapist," she hissed, but looked up at Phil and tipped her head to the sofa "Sit the fuck down and start talking."

He didn't sit, but his shoulders dropped as did his chin. She hoped it was guilt that made him look away.

She watched him, observing as the silence in the room grew oppressive, but neither of the idiots in the room appeared willing to break the stalemate. And fuck this shit, but she hadn't hacked SHIELD 2.0 for this. Inhaling slowly, she found her center and watched Phil. More than exhaustion colored his features and posture. For all the stillness he used to be so good at, now he _twitched._ His fingers were moving along his thighs, not tapping out Morse, but still moving intentionally, lines, curls, then a sudden jerking halt as a pained grimace marred his features.

That was new.

She tapped Clint's boot with her toe again, trying to catch his attention, but he was being stubborn. Stupid. His million mile stare firmly locked out the window.

Shaking her head, she shifted, standing as gracefully as ever, no indication that this was anything other than another safehouse with Phil and Clint being doofuses. She smiled around that thought. Sam Wilson was the _best._ She brushed past Phil on her way to the kitchen. "I am making tea and we are going to talk," she shot back over her shoulder. "Or I will strip you both, hogtie you together, and toss you in a closet," she murmured mostly to herself.

Taking her time with the ritual of making tea gained her some measure of control and time to reflect. She was a spy, she knew that people lied. It was _required_ in their line of work. She'd believed Phil was different. But he had always been a company man, willing to follow orders. Expecting him to be anything else was foolish and completely on _her._ She'd never had such expectation from Nick, not even from _Clint,_ though he couldn't lie for shit. So why did she hold Phil to a higher standard? Was it because she'd never known him to lie to her or Clint? Or was it because she'd needed to _believe?_

And that said more about her than it did about Phil.

She lowered the tea ball into the porcelain tea pot and watched the water darken. Her desperation for something _normal,_ for someone untainted by what they did had compromised her. At least that revelation helped her understand Clint better, though his compromise was deeper, cut to the bone. His very _marrow_ had been turned by Phil and that was going to take more than an apology to repair. Of course, it'd help if either of them would unbend enough to admit the depth of their feelings.

She snorted. Like _that_ was going to happen without a catalyst.

She set cups and saucers on a tray, adding spoons, napkins, sugar, milk, and cream, then a plate of cookies and, lastly, the tea pot. It was as close to real tea as she could get and it would have to do. If she couldn't get them to talking, then she'd resort to the alcohol.

At least Phil had taken a seat, she thought to herself as she set the tray down on the coffee table, the placement deliberate so that they'd both have to move to prepare their tea. "Tea. Help yourself," she said, fixing her own cup and settling once again into the sofa end closest to Clint.

Phil blinked a couple of times, but made his own cup and took two cookies. Her lips curled into a smile she kept hidden by her cup. He still had the same sweet tooth.

Clint growled something under his breath, but did move to make his own cup of tea.

"There. Isn't this better?" she asked, sweetly false.

"No," Clint said.

"Yes," Phil contradicted him, their disagreement simultaneous.

She took another sip to hide her amusement. Holding her tongue was going to be the right approach, she hoped.

"Oh, fuck you, Coulson!" Clint barked.

"Clint--"

The tea cup clattered to the coffee table and Clint pointed at Phil. "No. You do not have that right any more! You stayed away. You _lied_. You can call me Barton, or better yet just fuck off!"

"You kidnapped _me_ if I recall," Phil said, pedantic and stiff.

"Well maybe if you weren't a fucking lying asshole and had even once considered--"

"Clint, it was better--"

Clint growled. "Better?" He snorted, sounding like an angry wet cat. "Easier for you, maybe. Dump the dead weight and move on--"

"Clint, it was nothing like that!"

Natasha sipped her tea, her eyes carefully watching as they finally made progress of a sort. At least Phil had raised his voice slightly, showed some crack in his composure.

Clint placed both palms flat on the coffee table, arms taut and biceps straining as he pinned Phil with a death glare. "If I have it so fuckin' wrong, Coulson, then maybe you should start setting the record straight."

Phil sighed, an honest to god huff from his lungs. And when he set the tea cup down, Natasha noticed that his hand trembled. Whatever had happened to Phil in the intervening two years, it hadn't been particularly restful.

"I did die, that wasn't a lie."

"You're looking pretty spry for a dead guy as Tony would say," Clint said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It wasn't without cost," he said, shrugging. "But you called Stark 'Tony'. And that is the reason I didn't contact either of you."

Clint frowned and even Natasha had to admit that didn't make much sense.

And Phil knew them well enough to explain. "You're an Avenger, part of something greater. I am… not that."

"That's just stupid rationalization."

Natasha blinked at Clint, her surprise impossible to conceal.

"What? I've been in therapy, okay?"

She gave him a small smile and patted his knee, then turned to look at Phil.

"I did die. And don't ask how Fury brought me back. It was horrible and something that I had specifically told him to never use. Not even in an extreme emergency."

"But he did. On you," Natasha clarified.

In that moment Phil's face was ridiculously open. He was stunned, scared, and overwhelmed, with a large helping of disbelief thrown in for good measure. "Nick told you why he did it, didn't he?" she asked.

He nodded, eyes wide and vulnerable and Natasha was willing to forgive him right then and there whatever the reason. But she glanced at Clint and his expression was easier to read: the betrayal visible and bone deep, old scars flayed open and bleeding.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning," she coaxed.

"You mean why he took on a demigod with an experimental weapon?" Clint interjected, voice snide, still angry.

Phil's jaw tightened and his shoulders straightened. "I don't regret my choices that day. If I had to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing."

Natasha inhaled sharply.

"You don't regret getting yourself killed for nothing?" Clint asked, his voice cold.

Phil looked him straight in the eye and shook his head. "It wasn't for nothing. It bought us time to get the Hulk off the helicarrier and for Natasha to get you back. You're here, aren't you? So, no, I don't regret a damn thing." His jaw clenched, eyes _daring_ Clint to argue.

"You--" Clint choked. "There was no _way_ that was the right call!"

"I say it was," he protested. "I promised you when I became your handler that I'd never leave you behind and I keep my promises."

"Except you fuckin' _lied_ about being dead!"

"I'm sorry," he said, the regret genuine. "But I agreed with Nick. The Avengers trusting SHIELD was more important than anything I might want." He licked his lips. "Or feel."

Clint froze. Natasha wasn't sure if he was going to come over the table and kiss Phil or punch him. He shook his head, swallowed, uttered some barely coherent gibberish and then shot up, was up the stairs in a flash, door slamming behind him.

"That did not go well."

Natasha smiled. She couldn't help it. Fuck, she'd missed Phil. She snorted. "Understatement of the century."

"Should I...?"

"Nope."

"But…"

"Trust me on this one. You might as well have shouted to the rooftops how you felt. Even our oblivious archer got it."

"Our?"

"Welcome back, sir. You were missed."

Phil sniffed, and before she was aware of moving, they were hugging, holding each other tight with tears they'd each deny running down their faces. "Thank you for forgiving me. I never meant to hurt you. I swear," he murmured into her hair. "You are both amazing. You're _Avengers_ and I don't fit in with that."

She pulled back and shook her head at him, but didn't completely move out of his arms. "You're wrong."

"Natasha."

"No. Hear me out." They were still tangled up together. " _You're_ the one that brings people together. Inspires loyalty and coaxes the best out of all of us."

His eyes glanced upward.

" _Especially_ there. Only you saw the potential. Made him believe it, too. It's your superpower."

"I fucked him over now though, didn't I?"

"Only because you're oblivious of your own worth."

"I--"

"Do you understand why he ran?" she asked.

"I became just another liar in a long list of them."

"Or...he needs time to process the idea that his feelings might not be so one-sided," she suggested.

Phil inhaled a shaky breath and blinked at her. "What? He-- I--?" he stuttered, confused and at a loss.

Natasha grinned to herself. _Finally._ "Of course. For a long time. So long, I no longer remember the first time I recognized it." Which wasn't true, but reinforced her point.

Phil flopped back onto the sofa, legs giving way as though Natasha had hamstrung him.

"You… I… How?"

"I think you need to start with full sentences," she said, smile in her words.

He glanced up the stairs and Natasha could see how hard it was for him to keep away. She took pity on him and nodded up the stairs. "First door on the right, the key's on the trim."

Phil stood up, too fast, but made his sway look deliberate. That set Natasha to worrying after him as she followed him up the stairs with her eyes. "Don't tear the place up, we're only borrowing it from a friend," she cautioned. Phil waved in reply, but didn't turn to look at her. "Use a condom!" she shouted after he turned the corner.

She leaned back with her tea and chuckled to herself. They'd either finally talk or not, but, in the end, they'd work out what they were to each other. She trusted Phil enough to know he wouldn't keep hurting Clint and she believed him when he said he'd never meant to hurt either of them in the first place.

_'Idiot. Self-sacrificing jackass,'_ she thought, unsure which one that thought was directed at. Both, probably.

Clint paced the room, heart hammering, lungs heaving as his mind spun like a tilt-a-whirl. He was torn between anger and hurt, trying to surf a tsunami of emotion, all too intense and fleeting to grasp. He needed to run, to shoot something, needed to scream, fight, cry. He needed to let the building wave out before he exploded.

Clint punched the wall, pulling it at the last minute so his knuckles brushed the paint. He'd promised Natasha they'd return the house the way they found it.

Growling, he dropped to his knees, fist poised to strike the wooden floor -- anything to stop the tightening spiral of his thoughts -- when a firm, well-known pattern sounded on the door. He hated how he responded instinctively. He stopped and blinked as the door opened and a hesitant voice called out, "Clint?"

And then Phil peeked around the door, caught Clint staring up him, the man sounding unsure of himself in a way Clint couldn't reconcile with _his_ Phil. Phil Coulson had never once made Clint doubt that he knew exactly what he was doing no matter how absurd. But this Coulson was the opposite of self-assured; his competence sloughing away as he stood in the doorway, hands clenching and releasing before he crossed his arms in front of himself and asked, "Can I please come in?"

Without thought, Clint blurted out, "Seems like you can do whatever the fuck you want," before he could stop himself. He pressed his lips together and stood, brushing sweaty palms on his jeans.

"Clint, I -- uh, I'm sorry."

As an opening gambit, it was pretty pathetic.

Glaring, Clint leaned against the dresser, crossed his arms and debated how to reply.

For a man with renowned patience, Phil was displaying none of it today. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced around the room, eyes flicking past Clint multiple times.

"Can we…" he began, then stuttered to a stop. He took a breath, then started again. "I'm sorry. I have no right to ask anything of you. Just please tell me what you want from me and I'll do anything I can to give it to you."

"You think it's that easy?" Cint ground out. "You _died_ because of _me._ And--"

"No!" Phil interrupted; his voice hard and silencing Clint instantly. "Not because of you."

"With all due respect that you do not deserve, _sir,_ fuck you. I know very well what happened. And why."

"Clint."

"No! _You_ listen!" Clint stabbed at the air with his index finger, then poked his temple. "Loki was in my head, made me give up _everything._ That meant _you._ And _Tash._ He knew who to target, how to take you out, and what that would do to the rest of us."

Clint was breathing fast through his nose, jaw clenching as he forced the words out. He'd been through enough therapy that this should be easier to admit. It was still no better than gargling broken glass.

Phil stepped forward, hand reaching and Clint tried to back away, to run, but had nowhere to go. He shook his head, fast and furious, and Phil stopped; hand in mid-air, eyes wide, lips turned down.

"Whatever you think, I don't blame you, Clint. I never did."

"Then _why_?" he asked, voice gone plaintive and he'd hate that for all it said if he thought about it for too long.

Phil dropped his hand, flexed, then clenched both tight at his side before stopping himself by crossing his arms over his chest once again. "Guess I'm a coward and figured this way I'd never have to face my cowardice."

Clint frowned. "Don't think a guy going up against a god alone could be called a coward, sir." 

Phil snorted. " _That_ was easy. He took you and I was going to get you back or die trying."

Clint went silent, had no response to that. He'd never considered that he might matter that much to anyone, let alone _Phil._ He had always expected to be left behind, knew he was expendable. Spent his life waiting for the abandonment. To have someone claim that wasn't true left Clint speechless, his world tilting.

"Clint--" Phil began, but Clint stopped him with a raised hand.

"You don't get to say that kind of shit, sir. You promised you'd never lie to me."

"I can say it if it's the truth," Phil snapped. "I wouldn't leave anyone behind, but I sure as hell wasn't going to let that rat bastard keep _you_!"

"But--"

"No buts to it. You were _mine_ , SHIELD's," he hastily added.

Clint blinked at Phil, brows furrowed in disbelief.

"It is that simple, Clint. I know you have good reason not to trust me, but this was before the lies, before all this--" he waved at the air between them. "You trusted me then, trust _that_ Phil Coulson at least."

" _That_ Coulson?"

Phil pursed his lips and ducked his eyes.

" _That_ Coulson?" Clint repeated. "What the hell does that mean? Are you some tech thing? A robot? No, what was it… an LMD? Is that why you didn't tell me -- us?" Clint couldn't tell if he was more horrified or angry on Phil's behalf.

Phil's nostrils flared, his jaw doing that slight twitch that gave away his frustration. "I'm no LMD, Clint. I'm me. Still human," he said. "I think," he added as an afterthought, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

Clint growled, lunged forward and grabbed Phil's left hand. "Then what? How do you explain the tremors, the tracing?"

Phil inhaled sharply at Clint's touch, but didn't pull back. "That's a very long story."

"I've got all year."

Phil swallowed, blinked once, deliberate, before he squared his shoulders; he still had not pulled away. "Can we sit?" He hesitated. "Please?"

Clint nodded even though his stomach had congealed. He released Phil's hand with a quick squeeze before plopping on the bed, back to the headboard, legs splayed in front, intentionally casual. But he had no doubt that Phil saw through the deceit.

Their history and how well they knew each other settled thick between them as Phil sat heavily at the foot of the bed. He tried to sit straight and tall, but slumped; whole body ragged with exhaustion.

"I know you'll have questions. Hell, _I_ have them. Just… just give me a chance to get through this and then I'll try to answer any questions you still have," he asked. "Please?"

That quiet plea broke any resolve Clint had to still be an asshole about this. "Should I shout at Nat? She deserves to know the truth, too."

Phil nodded, "Please. Don't want to do this twice."

Clint tugged his phone out of his pocket and texted Nat to get her ass up there.

The silence settled, oppressive and weighted as they waited, but it gave Clint time to look his fill, time to notice that Phil looked like shit, gray around the edges and then there was the tracing, the way he'd suddenly stop as if he just that moment realized what he was doing. "You okay, sir?" Clint asked. He couldn't help the concern in his voice.

Phil met Clint's eyes for a moment before he looked away. "I'm fine. Jetlag."

Clint snorted. "Bullshit."

Anything Phil was about to say was interrupted by Natasha stepping into the room, her hands on her lips and a frown on her face. Clint patted the bed next to him.

"Are we going to braid each other's hair, too?" she asked, face unreadable, though she held herself carefully as she walked toward Clint.

"I don't have it in me to tell this tale more than once," Phil offered in explanation.

Natasha raised an eyebrow then sat down on the bed before she scooted next to Clint who reached for her hand. Phil's eyes lingered on their intertwined fingers before he glanced away and began speaking.

Phil's tale was unbelievable, or it would be if Clint hadn't lived through a Norse god stealing his mind. He'd gained some insights during the ordeal and knowledge of the other civilizations out there was one by-product. "A large blue alien, huh?"

Phil's eyes darted back to Clint who shrugged. "I learned a few things. It's no big deal."

Natasha squeezed their fingers together and Clint found he could actually smirk. "Sounds like something we should ask Thor about."

Phil shook his head. "No."

"Why not?" Natasha asked, the first words she'd said since Phil began talking.

Phil sighed, his shoulders slumping further, something that shouldn't be possible. "I am not the man I was."

"And you think Thor, of anyone, would give a damn about that?" Natasha asked before Clint could.

Phil's head twitched and he began tapping his foot. "There is something wrong with me," he gritted out. "And there is no sense exposing anyone else to it."

Clint frowned. "Is that it? The whole reason you never told us?"

Jaw clenching, Phil shut his eyes, nostrils flaring before he answered. "At first I was led to believe that you both had been informed. And then… then I learned differently." He opened his eyes, but didn't meet Clint's gaze. "By then I had a new team, responsibilities, and no way to contact you without making things worse."

Natasha nudged Clint with her elbow and he gave her a puzzled frown. She was trying to tell him something, but he had no clue what.

She rolled her eyes. "Clint thinks you don't trust us, but that's not it, is it?" She continued, answering her own question without giving Phil a chance to interject. "You trust us, but you don't trust yourself."

Phil's lips thinned, but he didn't refute her words.

"This procedure--"

"TAHITI," he interrupted with.

"Tahiti," Natasha echoed. "It fucked you over in more ways than one."

Clint listened quietly, tried to absorb it all without letting his issues overwhelm him.

"I… my memories were tampered with. I have no recollection of working on the TAHITI project, but I have seen video proof that I did. I tendered my resignation over it."

Natasha went still next to Clint. "Nick mentioned that incident. He was rattled," Natasha said.

"Nick doesn't get rattled," Clint argued.

"Exactly."

"So you knew?" Phil asked.

Natasha shook her head. "He never said what caused you to try to quit but he swore more colorfully and for far longer than I'd ever seen before." She almost smiled. "You're important to Nick."

Clint snorted and rolled his eyes.

Natasha looked at him and shrugged. It might be true, but you don't ignore your friend's wishes so completely.

Phil's eyes were on them, a sparse smile hinting at the corners of his lips. Clint almost smiled in return before he caught himself. He was supposed to still be pissed.

"I still don't remember and," he said, hesitating as that tiny smile disappeared. He licked his lips before taking a breath and continuing, "And I think some things I remember aren't completely accurate."

"Like what?" Natasha asked, her body language confusing. She was obviously angry and afraid. Clint kept silent counsel, eyes darting between them both as he tried to make sense of what they weren't saying.

"My memories of Portland… and Audrey. They are vivid and strong, far more clear than similar memories."

"Maybe because Audrey meant so much to you?"

Phil shook his head slightly as he considered Natasha's question. "I'm not describing it right." He caught himself drawing on his thigh and froze, eyes flicking up at Clint and Natasha.

"Give it another go, sir," Clint prompted.

He intertwined his fingers and deliberately placed them in his lap before he spoke again. "They feel… unreal, almost like a movie. I can see the events, but I don't _feel_ them."

"Implanted memories?" Natasha asked and Phil shrugged.

Clint cleared his throat and both turned their focus to him. He hadn't wanted that, but he needed to say something. "My memories of-of _Loki_ aren't clear at all," he started, mouth going dry.

Phil's eyes softened. The stiffness in his shoulders eased just a bit. "Clint, you don't have to--"

"I want to. If it'll help."

Natasha bumped shoulders with him, then took his hand. It was more demonstrative than she was usually, but it was just the three of them. There hadn't been anyone that knew Natasha as well as Clint and Phil. And no one, not even Natasha had known Clint as well as Phil. It seemed fair to be honest now.

Clint shrugged. "Everything I remember is obscured by a blue light." He shook his head. "I can remember it all, can _feel_ each shot, _hear_ each conversation, but I have to concentrate. I have to push past the haze. My therapist said it's probably a combination of my psyche protecting itself and the way my mind was taken over."

He looked away, tried to keep his body loose as he spoke. "It's shit for a coping mechanism if that's what it is."

Phil barked out a laugh. "I hear you." He leaned forward and pressed a hand to Clint's knee. "Thank you. I know you owe me nothing, no explanation, no support, no forgiveness. But I am grateful for whatever you'll give."

Clint dropped his head back and gazed up at the ceiling.

Natasha blew out a breath. "You're both idiots."

"Hey now!" Clint protested, lifting his head to glare at Natasha.

"I like to think I'm not," Phil argued.

Natasha just raised one eyebrow and shook her head at both of them. "I should have gone the hog-tied route," she muttered. "Nevermind. Answer me one question, Phil."

"If I can."

"When you were our handler… when we were Strike Team Delta…"

He nodded.

"Were you really our friend or was it all part of the job?" she asked. 

Clint's stomach lurched and he thought he'd throw up. Leave it to Natasha to lay it all out, to give voice to his deepest fears.

To his credit, Phil's composure broke and he frowned, his eyes going sad. "I'm sorry. I owe you both more than words. I never meant to hurt you. Or make you doubt. I have always considered you both more than co-workers. If it had just been a professional relationship, I would have told you right away, damn the consequences. I would have demanded you for my team. I would have been that selfish."

"But instead?" Natasha prompted.

"Instead I allowed myself to believe that you were both better off. That you had moved onto the greatness you are both capable of." When he said that, he paused, stared at Clint until Clint had to look away. "I wasn't an integral part of the Initiative and I was given a place and a purpose that wasn't the same, but was… important. I was doing good. _Was._ "

"Was?" Natasha asked. "That's not what I hear."

Phil snorted. "I _missed_ Hydra infiltrating SHIELD. I had a traitor _on my team._ " He gritted his teeth. "I let him seriously injure Fitz and Simmons leaving Fitz permanently maimed. I forgot myself. I forgot that deeds -- not words, not spectacle, not powers -- just actions, define us. _'Even a child is known by his actions, by whether his conduct is pure and right.'_ 2 And SHIELD wasn't on the side of the angels. Even those of us who weren't Hydra. We weren't transparent. We weren't honest. It's no wonder Hydra flourished. We gave them far too many dark corners to thrive in."

"With all due respect, sir, we all missed Hydra," Clint said, stopping him.

Phil shook his head. "No."

"Pretty sure that's true. Don't know anyone who predicted that Hydra had grown up with SHIELD."

Phil's lips twitched upward, but he restrained the smile. "I just meant that we shouldn't have been so blind. So full of ourselves that we were led astray so completely."

Natasha interjected this time. "Pretty sure that's just being human, sir."

Clint looked at Natasha and grinned. "Ain't no one more _human_ than us," Clint echoed, an old in-joke that still felt right between them.

Phil glanced down and Clint could see it was to hide a smile. "Guess we'll have to agree to disagree on that point."

"So now what?" Clint asked.

"That is up to you," Phil said, expression surprised.

Natasha yawned wide then stretched. Fake as hell, but before Clint could call her out she said, "It's been a long day. You're barely upright. How about we finish up over pancakes in the morning?"

Phil glanced between them. "Clint's chocolate chip?" he asked, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

And that was damned distracting and entirely unfair. Clint realized they were both waiting on him to say something. "Um, yeah?" he answered, hand going to the back of his neck. He hoped they wanted to know about pancakes and not something earth shattering.

"Right," Natasha said. "I'm not listening to Clint snore all night--"

"I do not snore!"

"Riiiiight," Phil said, voice sardonic.

"Hey!" Clint pouted.

"Anyway… I will sleep in the guestroom. You two can share."

"S-Share?" Phil stuttered.

"What?" Clint squawked.

"Glad you both heard me," Natasha said as she walked out, leaving them both staring wide-eyed at each other until she returned with Phil's bag.

"It's a king bed. I'm certain you won't have to touch each other." She rolled her eyes and left, closing the door behind her.

The silence stretched again, neither man moving until finally Phil took a breath and said, "Rock-paper-scissors?" while cocking his head at Clint.

"Fuck that. You cheat."

"I--"

"Just go, Coulson. You've got to be running on fumes."

Phil looked like he was about to say something, then he shook his head and stood, giving Clint a weary smile. "Thank you, Clint. For everything."

Clint waved him off and they didn't talk again that night, just moved around each other easily, like years hadn't passed since they last slept in a safe house together.

~~*~~

Natasha retreated to the guest room, noiselessly packed her bag and then waited. She allowed her eyes to unfocus, her concentration softening, fuzzing at the edges, as she slipped into quiet meditation, silent tuned out but still aware as the house slowly went completely silent. She waited another hour to be sure both men were deep asleep before snagging the panel van's keys. The last thing she needed right now was sleep and the dreams that were sure to come. Clint and Phil needed time alone to deal with their shit and Natasha needed some answers and an outlet for the anger that still simmered in the pit of her stomach.

She locked the door behind her, smile sharp as she drove off in the middle of the night, phone in hand and dialing a very familiar number. The phone rang for a long time but didn't roll over to voicemail. Just when she was about to give up, a gruff voice answered.

"Romanoff," Nick answered and Natasha gripped the steering wheel tight, but remained silent.

"So that's how it's gonna be? You call me at fuck o'clock in the morning and then don't have the courtesy to talk?"

"You know why I'm calling."

"Yeah, you took something of mine and I'd very much like him back."

"He's not yours," she fired back.

"I beg to differ. I pulled the self-sacrificing jackass out of the goddamn morgue."

"He didn't ask you to do that. In fact, he explicitly did not want you to do that."

She heard Nick inhale sharply.

"So why the fuck did you? That was wrong, Nick." That was a stupid thing to say. "The bad kind of wrong," she added for some reason and that was even more ridiculously obvious. And Natasha was not one to waste words. She was still unsettled, off her game, and her mouth hadn't gotten the memo to just _shut up already._

When Nick finally answered, his voice was gruff and strained. "I fucked up, Natasha. I trusted Pierce, bought into the idea of 'prevention'. I gave Hydra fertile ground to grow in. That's on me. But SHIELD is still necessary. I just needed someone that wouldn't repeat my mistakes to run it. Someone I trusted."

"But," she frowned. "That doesn't add up. You brought Coulson back _before_ Hydra."

"He always was my backup plan," Nick said. "I didn't have another one in place."

Natasha pulled into airport long-term parking and killed the engine. "So you what? Panicked?"

"Fine. You want full disclosure, you'll have it," Nick huffed out. "But not like this. I want a meet. And bring what you took."

Natasha's lips curled up into a slight smile. Nick always did have balls of steel. She snorted. "You are in no position to make demands." She leaned her head back against the headrest. "I don't have him."

"What?"

"Clint does."

"Fuck," Nick hissed.

"You lied to them both."

"I did more than goddamn lie and I did it to more than just them."

"Glad you own your shit," Natasha snapped.

"I am not fucking apologizing for bringing Phil back. And if Barton's with him now, I will bet that he's damned glad I did, too."

"You are such a fucking asshole."

"Never said I wasn't."

Despite how angry she wanted to be, Natasha just couldn't dredge up the energy. "Fine. Text me your coordinates and we'll talk. But--"

"But what?"

"I want Barnes."

"And what makes you think I know where he is?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Don't do that, Nick."

"You can't blame a guy for trying. He messed the retrieval team up badly the last time. One that included Captain America. What makes you think you'll be any different?"

Natasha grabbed her bag with a smile, flipped the phone off speaker and put it to her ear as she walked toward the terminal. She grinned. "Because you've already been working on him."

The dead air on the line meant she'd hit pay dirt.

"Sending the coordinates now," he said said, voice dour. "We okay?" he asked after her phone beeped, signaling receipt of Nick's location.

Natasha frowned at the question; had to take some time to process whether they were. "We will be. But we're nowhere near even."

"Drop by my place first. I'll take you to dinner."

"You think dinner will do it?" she asked, eyebrow lifting.

"Look at the second set of coordinates," he said, quietly amused by her question.

She pulled her phone from her ear and swiped at the text messages. "What are you doing at the Vatican, sir?"

"That intel is not part of something I can share," Nick chuckled. "But I have a standing reservation nearby."

Natasha's favorite restaurant was impossible to get into. And Nick had a standing reservation there.

"Guess I'm coming to Rome. See you in a few hours." She hung up before Nick could reply. She couldn't decide if it was a good thing that he knew her so well. Maybe it was worth taking the chance to finally find out.

~~*~~

Clint woke slowly after getting the best night's sleep he'd had in years. He slept through without dreams or waking. He held on to that feeling of warmth and hunkered deeper into the mattress, a soft smile on his lips as took stock. The body at his back was firmly muscled, warm breath puffing against his neck, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip, including very prominent morning wood. Clint arched back until his brain came online and he jerked away.

"Coulson!" he gasped as he rolled out of bed.

Phil jerked upright, Clint's handgun drawn as he blinked awake.

"Shit, sir! It's me! It's Clint!" Clint's hands lifted without thought, his eyes moving to follow the barrel of the gun.

Phil shook his head, blinked a couple of more times, then locked the safety and deliberately set the gun on the nightstand. His eyes swept Clint's bare chest, cheeks pinking before he ducked his head and wadded the covers over his lap.

"Sorry," he said and refused to meet Clint's eyes. "Didn't mean to be handsy."

"Umm, no worries, sir. I was on your side of the bed." Clint took a breath and tried not to stare at Coulson's arms and the bit of wiry hair peeking out of his undershirt. "I'll get right on those pancakes. You should… uh, go ahead and get some more shut eye. Sorry I woke you," he mumbled as he backed up toward the door. He needed to take a piss and get his head on straight before Natasha gave him so much shit, but there was no hope of that while he was staring at a sleep-rumpled and bleary eyed Phil Coulson who looked soft and approachable; made Clint want to touch and hold and have things that were not his to have.

"You sure?" Phil asked. "I should help. Make coffee at least." He grabbed the covers and looked to be getting out of bed. The last thing Clint needed right now was getting visual confirmation of the size of Phil's package.

He raised his hands as his back hit the door. "No!"

Phil froze, eyes wide.

"I mean, you should rest. Getting a solid eight has to help with that hypergraphia thing, right? I got breakfast." He raised his hands, palms out to try to convince Phil to stay put. "Besides, Tasha's around. So... just stay... there. Right where you are. In bed. Yeah." He didn't mean to babble or to make it sound like Phil wasn't welcome, but Clint wasn't capable of dealing with Phil and how he made Clint feel this early in the morning.

Phil nodded, gave Clint a sheepish smile. "If you're sure."

"I am."

"Thanks, Clint. I'm still pretty wiped, but at least I didn't wake up after having carved all night in my sleep."

Clint's hand stopped on the doorknob. "That's a thing?"

Phil settled back into the bed, covers tugged up to his shoulders. "Yeah," he said, shrugging and refusing to meet Clint's eyes.

"That sucks."

"It does."

Clint frowned, but didn't know what else to say. The carving thing sucked balls, but at least Phil was alive to carve. Phil closed his eyes as Clint watched; a demonstration of trust, or maybe he was more wrung out than he wanted to admit. Either way, it was a clear dismissal.

Clint closed the bedroom door behind himself and leaned against it with a heavy sigh. His anger had burned itself out Hard to be mad at someone who was as bad off as Phil; that'd be like kicking a puppy. Not that Phil was in any way puppy-like. Nope. Though he was pretty adorable all rumpled and soft. Clint stopped that train of that before it could speed off down tracks Clint did not want to follow.

Shaking his head he stepped to Natasha's door and tapped quietly. The door wasn't latched and drifted open with the pressure. "Nat?" he called, but she'd cleared out. He swore and raced down to the garage, which was empty. The beat up panel van _and_ Natasha were gone.

"Dammit, Tash!" he cursed aloud. "This isn't funny! What the hell do you expect me to do? Confess my feelings over pancakes?"

Clint gritted his jaw and inhaled against the rising panic. He was alone in a safe house with Phil Coulson. It'd be fine. Really. Clint would make pancakes. They'd talk about nothing Weather. Sports, maybe. Then Clint would call Tony and… Well, hell. If he called Tony, then everyone else would show up and that meant Cap would, too. Cap and his big blue puppy dog eyes. For all that Clint wasn't happy about being lied to, he still didn't want to subject Phil in his current state to the Avengers. That was settled then. He'd take his chances with Melinda. She'd probably only bruise him up a bit, not break anything. He hoped.

Decision made, Clint turned to the pantry and began digging out ingredients for his pancakes. Funnily enough everything he needed was available, including bananas, the secret ingredient. He'd heard of having a well-stocked kitchen, but he suspected this was more Natasha's doing than any resident's.

He started the coffee and began to make the batter, humming to himself as he did.

Coffee done, large pile of pancakes warming in the oven, and the last of the bacon crisping in the pan, Clint steeled himself to go wake up Phil. After he put the bacon on a paper towel-lined plate to drain, he turned and nearly jumped out of his skin to see Phil standing by the counter.

"Shit!"

"Sorry," Phil said, but his mischievous smile clearly said he was not.

Clint should be concerned about how easily Phil slipped under his radar, how he didn't set Clint's alarm bells to ringing or even trip him up at all. He still wasn't all the way there with Stark or Rogers and he'd been working with them off and on for a couple of years. Only Sam Wilson, with his perfect smile and gentle compassion had ever been so quick to get past Clint's defenses.

"Saved me having to drag your ass out of bed," Clint snarked back and very deliberately looked away from the adorably rumpled, sleep pants wearing Phil Coulson.

He grabbed pot holders and took the pancakes out of the oven. "Mugs are above the coffee maker, everything else is on the table."

"It looks and smells delicious. Thank you, Clint," Phil said, his sincerity making Clint's heart tumble helplessly. "Where's Natasha?"

"She bailed."

Phil seemed unfazed, but his one word reply said volumes. "Ah."

Despite what should be an awkward start, they ate in semi-comfortable silence because Clint didn't have the energy or willpower to talk without revealing far too much. Phil seemed content to eat without conversation as well. And no matter what Natasha thought, he was not about to lay his feelings and issues onto Phil's nicely broad shoulders. _'Dammit!'_

Phil powered through his stack of pancakes, only slowing and coming to a stop when his plate contained little more than syrup and crumbs. Inside Clint preened, just a bit. It was gratifying to feed someone who enjoyed his food without worrying about the calories. Phil topped their coffees off, finishing the pot, then made more. Clint assumed that was a good sign.

"So," Phil began as he sipped his coffee. "Natasha left us stranded here for a reason."

Clint shrugged. "Who understands the mind of a Russian assassin?"

Phil snorted. "You." He gazed at Clint with that placid expression that was so unnerving.

"Not this time, boss."

"If that's how you want to play it... So I hear you and Master Sergeant Wilson have become close?"

Clint blinked, taken off guard by the shift in topic, it took him a minute to regroup. "How the hell could you know that?" he snapped. "Shit! Hill! That b--"

"Don't say it," Phil cautioned.

"Why? She works for Stark, has been to movie night with the team a couple of times and all along she knew you were alive?" Clint's fists were clenching, breakfast sitting leaden in his gut as he glared at Phil. Maria's betrayal was fucking _personal._

Phil was still calm, but it was a calculated facade. The way his right hand twitched around the mug was as clear as a laser sight. "Maria Hill might have made a couple of 'questionable' choices--" 

Clint growled but Phil ignored him and continued talking.

"--but she did them for the right reasons."

Clint was unconvinced. "Really? The 'right' reasons? And wasn't it that kind of thinking -- that the ends justify the means -- that Pierce used to rationalize genocide?"

Phil's jaw clenched, but his silence was damning.

Clint had struck a nerve. He sat back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hard. "So, no, I'm not going to excuse Hill's actions, not going to forget them, either."

"So you go to Tony and get her fired? What good does that accomplish? How is that a good 'means', Clint?" Phil was relentless. "It's revenge. And you and I both know that nothing good ever comes from vengeance."

"And I'm supposed to what? Ignore what she did? What else is she lying about? And why the hell shouldn't Tony know? Divided loyalties--"

"Suck. I get that," Phil interrupted. "But Maria's loyalties aren't divided. Her priorities might be a bit different than yours, or mine, but she is loyal and on the side of the angels."

Clint choked off a snort and leaned forward. "Pretty sure you've never considered SHIELD on the side of the angels before... _sir._ "

"It is now. I'm _trying_ , Clint. Trying to do this the right way, but it's not easy."

"And that right there is why you're an idiot for not bringing me and Nat in on it. You need our help."

"Neither of you are SHIELD. You're Avengers. That's where you can do the most good, not working long hours within our tiny, underfunded, underground organization. The good you do every time you 'Assemble' is magnified far beyond what SHIELD can do right now." Phil reached out and rested his palm, warm from the mug, on Clint's forearm. "I kind of really need you to keep doing that."

As if Clint could resist anything Phil asked of him, especially when honest sincerity oozed off of him like honey. "Never said I was giving Avenging up."

Phil's lips curled up ever so slightly. "Good."

Clint gave Phil a puzzled look as he tried to figure out how the conversation had gone where it had. Clint swore that Phil's eyes twinkled as he stood to clear the dishes.

Clint tried to protest, stood to help, but Phil silenced him with a look. "You cooked. It's the least I can do. And thank you, again, the pancakes were as delicious as I remember them being."

Clint had no idea what to say to that so he just shrugged.

Phil's smile was that little barely there smile; the one that warmed Clint all the way down to his toes. "Why don't you go shower? We're stuck here for the time being until we can get an extraction."

"Are you saying I smell, Coulson?"

"You reek. Of bananas and chocolate," Phil shot back. "It's mildly distracting."

"Mildly?" Clint grinned, then flexed his arms, just a bit. He caught Phil looking and stretched tall so that his shirt rode up exposing a slash of skin over his low-slung sleep pants. It was gratifying to see Phil notice. At the very least he found Clint attractive enough _to_ notice.

Phil's ears and cheeks went pink before he turned to the sink. "Shower, Clint, then we can figure out a ride."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Clint saluted, but only left when he saw Phil's shoulders shaking with laughter.

Mission accomplished. At least the morning had been good beyond Clint's imaginings, even the tense conversation going better than Clint expected.

~~*~~

Clint emerged from the shower, his mind pleasantly blank and limbs loose. It'd been a long time since he'd jacked off to thoughts of Phil that didn't end horribly, leaving him tense and guilty. His therapist had given him 'permission' to masturbate to fantasies of Phil, but Clint'd never quite gotten them right. They'd turn icy blue, then sticky red, and he'd end up on his knees, shaking and cold. After the last miserable attempt, he'd only allowed himself porno-inspired fantasies starring generic strong-jawed suit-wearing middle-aged men. They'd never been satisfying in the same way, but that was just another small way he'd been punishing himself.

He mused at his reflection in the mirror. For the first time he could meet his own eyes and honestly admit that he had turned a corner. Natasha was right. He'd needed this, more than he'd allowed himself to even consider. Did he want more, or even something beyond friendship? Well those feelings hadn't changed, but he also understood that he and Phil had some serious issues to discuss, trust to be regained, and a new equilibrium to be established. If all of that left them as nothing more than friends once again it was still more than Clint had even twenty-four hours ago.

His lips quirked up in a smirk. And Sam Wilson _was_ fucking hot. So his possibilities were looking up.

He tossed his wet towel over the shower rod and moved into the bedroom to get dressed. The door was open to the hallway, but he didn't care. Or maybe he wanted Phil to see him like this. He could almost hear Natasha's sarcastic, 'Of course not,' accompanied by an epic eye roll. He slid his legs into snug boxer briefs before tugging on well-worn jeans. He debated going shirtless, but he couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for doing so and Phil might have a Clint-shaped blindspot, but he wasn't a fool.

A tight gray tee with a faded Captain America shield on the front was a pretty good compromise.

Whistling, he returned downstairs to find Phil sitting on the sofa, knees bent, bare feet resting on the edge of the coffee table. He was frowning at a tablet, his phone sitting on the couch cushion next to him.

"Problems, boss?"

Phil glanced up, eyes flicking up and down Clint's torso before landing and staying firmly on Clint's crooked grin. "Whatever tech you've installed, I can't get a signal."

"Of course you can't." Clint snorted, then settled next to Phil, making a grab for his tablet. Phil lifted it away and Clint automatically followed, reaching for it. That left them chest to chest, sharing the same air and Clint froze, his breath stuttering in his lungs. He'd never been quite this close to Phil, well not when one of them wasn't bleeding out. Phil's eyes were a faded blue, cascades of gray ringing the pupil and even behind the thick dark frames, they were warm, gazing fondly at Clint, crow's feet crinkling at the sides making Phil more approachable and _real._

Clint hovered there for eons-long seconds, his heartbeat growing louder and more insistent in his ears as time stood still. He watched Phil's pupils grow and _wanted._

Licking his lips, he scrambled away. "S-sorry, sir."

"Nothing to apologize for, Bar-- Clint." Phil frowned momentarily before his expression smoothed over. "I think we should talk," Phil said. "Natasha indicated that we are clueless idiots." He almost smiled. "I’m beginning to believe her."

Clint slumped into the sofa, a careful cushion separating them, his eyes on the ceiling and not Phil. "Yeah, probably," he agreed. "I don't really wanna talk about… _it._ "

"I won't force the issue, but can you tell me why not?"

And that was the Phil Coulson Clint'd always known: considerate, compassionate, but still determined to cut through Clint's bullshit.

Clint shrugged.

Clint heard a quiet huff, felt Phil shift, then Phil began speaking. "Maybe the problem is that you need me to start? That seems fair. I still don't deserve to be here like this, but I'll take what you're offering."

Clint's head snapped up. "What do you mean you don't deserve to be here?"

Phil shrugged. "I basically abandoned you and Natasha. I can't expect forgiveness--"

"Wait a second. Just hold on a damn minute. You think I don't _forgive_ you?"

Phil rubbed his forehead and Clint thought he recognized the signs of a headache coming on. "Why should you? I have done nothing to earn it."

"You are an idiot," Clint hissed. "You don't get to decide whether or not you're forgiven. That's not how it works."

Phil looked at him, his brow knitted in confusion, eyes blinking. He looked soft and vulnerable and Clint wanted to scoot closer, wanted to hug him.

"I am aware that you get to decide all of this, Clint. But I haven't said or done anything--"

" _Phil,_ " Clint said, interrupting with a soft kick to Phil's shin with his bare toes.

Phil's jaw snapped shut.

"The thing is, Nat and I, we're… well, we're not your usual sort of minion."

"Minion?" Phil mouthed.

Clint grinned. "You don't watch Disney anymore, sir?"

When Phil shook his head slowly, Clint snorted and shook his head. "Gonna have to give Melinda hell. She's not taking proper care of you _at all._ "

That made Phil crack a soft smile. "You do that. But I want to watch."

"I'll have Natasha be my proxy."

"All the more reason to watch," Phil added.

"I'm not stupid, _Phil._ I like my bones in one piece and my ass right where it is."

"I think we've lost the thread of this conversation."

"Maybe. But the bottom line is you don't get to decide whether or not you're forgiven. And for our part, well, Nat and I, we know you didn't mean to hurt us. And from where we're sitting, it looks like you got the short end of the stick. So why wouldn't we forgive you?"

Phil looked honestly confused by the question.

Clint nudged Phil's thigh with bare toes, shifting to tuck his feet under Phil's leg. "Whatever. If Natasha hadn't forgiven you, she wouldn't have left us alone. And I...," he paused, tripped over the emotion welling in his throat. "Look. I care about you. A lot. And I might not have said anything, might have been too hung up on my own issues so I couldn't see yours. And I'm not expecting anything here. But I'd like to move past all the bullshit, and maybe get to know you outside of a purely professional relationship."

Phil looked gobsmacked and more than a bit hopeful. Clint took that as a good sign. "If you'd like that, too?"

"I'd…" Phil cleared his throat. "Yes, Clint. I'd very much like that." He ducked his head and blinked a few times before looking up and meeting Clint's eyes. And when the hell did his eyes get so blue? "I just never hoped you… and _me._ "

"Same here, sir."

"We are idiots. Natasha was right."

Clint laughed. "She always is."

"Melinda is going to kill me."

"Why?"

Phil wrapped a warm hand around one of Clint's calves. "Because I've brought a wise-assed archer into the fold."

Clint grinned, wide and happy. "Thought you wanted me to stay an Avenger, boss?"

"Can't take the superhero out of the archer."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Superhero?"

Phil's eyes were intent, his expression serious. "Hell, yes. You're the only unadulterated human on that team, Clint. That makes you either batshit crazy or a superhero. No two ways about it."

"I think most folks'd go with batshit."

"I know better. I've always been in awe of your determination. Your conviction to do the right thing, even at great personal cost--"

"Right back at’cha, sir."

Phil gave him that smile again, his eyes crinkling fondly. "Much as I am enjoying this banter, I do think it'd be best if I phoned Melinda," he said.

Clint leaned forward, hand outstretched. "So gimme your tablet."

"Not my phone?"

"Either one."

Phil frowned, but handed his phone over, fingertips brushing Clint's skin as he withdrew. "How'd you embed anything in my tech?"

Clint was concentrating on Phil's phone, following Tony's instructions for disabling the signal blocker for anything but Stark-encrypted tech. "We didn't. Nothing that wasn't keyed to the particular frequency here _and_ authorized on the private VPN tunnel was getting in or out." He handed the phone back to Phil. "Courtesy of Tony Stark."

Phil blinked as his phone began to signal and vibrate loudly with delayed notifications. Within a few seconds, it began to ring. Answering the call he lifted the phone to his ear. "Coulson," he said, then winced.

Clint stood and mouthed, "I'll leave you to it."

Phil shook his head frantically. "No!" He swore under his breath. "Not you, Melinda. I was talking to Agent Barton--"

"Tell Mel I said 'Hi'."

Phil shook his head, eyes on Clint even as he huffed into the phone. "I--" he began, but stopped. 

Melinda was normally a woman of few words. If she was on a tear where Phil couldn't get a word in edgewise, it'd be safer for Clint to stay out of earshot. Plausible deniability and all that.

In short order, Phil stepped into the kitchen looking all kinds of adorable and hesitant. He was a bit pink around the ears and on his cheeks and that made Clint wonder just what Melinda had said to him. He was about to ask when Phil started talking instead.

"Um, I'd really like to take you on a date, Clint. Dinner and a show, maybe? Do this proper."

Clint frowned. "Did Melinda say something to you?"

Phil's shoulders drooped. "She told me that she was not about to live through more pining and she was not about to come retrieve me until she confirmed that I had manned up and finally asked you out."

Clint stalked up close, invaded Phil's space. "So you're only asking because Melinda--?"

"I want to," Phil interrupted. "I wasted my chance before. I don't want to do that again." His hands twitched and fluttered at his sides like he wanted to touch but didn't have permission.

Clint leaned closer. He could see those gray flecks in Phil's eyes clearly. "I'm a sure thing, sir," he murmured. You don't need--"

Phil stopped Clint with a kiss. He pressed the rest of the way forward, his hands coming up to tug on one bicep while the other wrapped around Clint's waist. Clint went with it. Couldn't resist. They were already nose to nose; giving himself permission to meet Phil the few millimeters left between them seemed natural. Right.

And Clint'd like to say that the kiss was perfect. That there were fireworks. A symphony. Angels singing.

But the reality was that they bumped noses and Clint went with tongue while Phil kept his mouth closed. It was inelegant and awkward. They ended up nose-to-nose pressed against the refrigerator breathless with laughter, but it was still pretty spectacular.

"Come back to the base with me, Clint. I want you to meet my team, especially Skye. She's..." He shook his head. "You'd like her."

"And then what?" Clint asked, wonder and hope expanding his lungs and buoying his heart.

"I'd like to promise you forever," Phil began, voice a bit rough as Clint leaned into the palm on his cheek, "but with the lives we lead--"

"How about we take it one day at a time? See where we end up?" Clint asked.

"As long as we're together."

Phil was warm, strong, _safe_ and Clint's life might not be a romance novel, but it looked like he just might get a do-over on a happily ever after. "Yes," Clint murmured then decided they needed a do-over on that kiss.

This time there were fireworks.


	2. Epilogue

Clint huffed out a breath and stalked down the hallway toward Phil's office, Phil keeping pace, but staying silent. Clint'd dropped his gear there when they'd first arrived, before he was given a lanyard from Koenig and a cursory tour of the super secret base from Skye. Despite a mutual wariness, Clint recognized a kindred spirit in Skye, someone with a history before Phil found her, and he wanted to get to know the hacker.

But then Melinda had pulled him aside and explained Phil's carving and their difference of opinion on options and Clint had lost it. His breathing was too fast, too erratic, and Clint knew it; couldn't do anything to tame his anger. He was projecting every emotion out loud and very large, bigger than life. He pursed his lips and sucked in the skin of his lower lip as he shoved the door open and prowled around Phil's office. He still wasn't sure what he was doing here except Phil'd said 'Jump' and Clint had asked 'How high?' just like he always would.

"Clint?" Phil's voice pulled Clint from the spiraling anxiety. He stopped short and blinked at Phil who was suddenly hovering nearby, close enough that Clint could count the pale freckles on his cheeks. His eyes were wide, the crinkles from worry not laughter.

"I'm fine," Clint choked out.

"No you're not," Phil countered.

Clint turned away, began to fiddle with a heavyweighted pen on Phil's desk.

"Clint, talk to me," Phil implored, hand resting on Clint's shoulder. Of course he wouldn't take Clint's word for how he was feeling. He never had. At least that hadn't changed. Everything else though...

"What do you want me to say, Coulson?" Clint snapped. "You fucking told May to put you down like a rabid dog!" he hissed, eyes locked on the far wall where he now knew Phil spent hours carving himself into exhaustion.

Phil exhaled sharply, the puff of air warm against Clint's ear. "She shouldn't have told you."

Clint whirled around, blood pounding in his ears. "Why? So you could die again on me? Except this time _intentionally_?"

"I didn't-- That's not--"

"Then what the fuck did you mean?"

Clint clenched and released his fists repeatedly. He gritted his jaw and shifted his stance until he was farther away, had some breathing room. They were both too close to this and Clint couldn't bear the look in Phil's eyes, the dread and sadness that weighed him down. But he had to know. Had to find out before he jumped into this, whatever it was, with both feet. This time he wanted to be prepared, had convinced himself that the inevitable end wouldn't hurt as bad if he was.

"I won't compromise my team, what's left of SHIELD, or innocent lives," Phil began.

Clint opened his mouth to rebutt everything but Phil held up his hand. "Let me finish," he said. " _Please._ "

Clint nodded.

"I refuse to endanger you. If this thing, the alien blood, the carving, whatever it is, comes with embedded commands, then I can't be trusted." He swallowed. "It's not safe. _I'm_ not safe, Clint."

"Fuck that noise," Clint said, voice hard. "We will figure this shit out." Phil looked doubtful. "We will. And if we cannot, we will ask Thor, Tony, and Bruce for help."

"They aren't cleared--"

"Bullshit. They know you're alive, Phil. And they'll want to keep you that way. So don't you _dare_ give up." He growled, low in his throat, his heart aching at the thought of losing Phil again. "I've got enough fight in me for the both of us."

Phil stepped close, one hand reaching until he pressed his palm against Clint's cheek. Clint took a shuddery breath as his eyes closed involuntarily. He must have made a small whimper because Phil's lips pressed gently against his. "I love you, Clint. I promise to keep fighting. As long as you promise me one thing."

Clint opened his eyes. "What?" he asked around his heart lodged in his throat.

"If the worst does happen, promise me that you'll take care of yourself. Find someone and live life to the fullest."

Clint was shaking his head. But Phil ignored that and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close until they were chest to chest, too near to gaze at each other comfortably. Phil's eyes were such an intense blue. "I-I can't promise that."

"Promise me you'll at least try."

"Phil." Clint looked away; couldn't bear to meet Phil's pleading gaze.

"Clint, I swear I'll fight this thing, but I have to know that you'll be fine. I need to know that whatever happens to me, I won't have left you behind."

"But you will have," Clint said, the hollow pit in his stomach growing. "I won't make a promise I can't keep." His voice was pretty steady, damn good for the way his insides felt like they were shaking apart.

Phil's arms tightened around Clint's waist, his sigh ruffling Clint's hair. "You always were too stubborn for your own good."

"Pot. Kettle," Clint ground out.

"Look at me, baby."

The endearment had Clint jerking his head back to see Phil grinning at him like a loon. "Baby? What the fuck?"

Phil chuckled. "Just trying it on for size," he said, shrugging. "It got your attention."

"Ass."

Phil's smile softened, his expression turned wistful as he canted his head. "We good?" he asked, words hopeful and urgent.

"I'm still pissed."

"Make it up to you?" Phil asked, tone cajoling and a bit sly as he backed them toward his desk.

And now Clint was left breathless and speechless for a completely different reason. "Are you suggesting that we fuck over your desk?"

The little grin Phil gave Clint made his heart skip a beat and his blood rush south. "You kinky motherfucker," Clint said as his butt hit the side of the desk, but he spread his legs and pulled Phil to stand between them. "I like it."

Phil's grin turned mischievous. He lifted a box on the desk and pressed his thumb onto a button. Clint heard the door lock and the room darken as the shades slid to cover the large windows.

"You do this often, I take it?"

"Never, but you inspire me," Phil said, then leaned up and seized Clint's lips.

~~*~~

Natasha's phone rang and she stretched before reaching for it, Nick's silent glare making her smile widen. "Clint? Is something wrong?" she asked when she saw the number.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'.

She rolled her eyes, but put the phone on speaker and set it on the pillow next to Nick's bound forearm. "So what's up, Solnyshko? Don't tell me you lovebirds need more advice?" She skated her nails through the wiry hairs on Nick's chest, eyes crinkling as he groaned.

"You not alone, Tash?"

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p' in echo of Clint's playful tone.

"Oh, shit!" he said, turning away from the mic. "Boss, you owe me big!" His voice was muffled, but Natasha heard it clearly.

"What the hell, Clint?"

"Clint," Natasha repeated, trying to get his attention. He might have Laser-focus on an op, but he was worse than a hyperactive puppy in a park full of oak trees otherwise.

"Clint." She couldn't make out the conversation on the other end. She bit her lip and moved to straddle Nick's hips. "Clint, I'm hanging up now. I don't have--"

"Oh, hey, sorry, Nat. Congrats, by the way."

"To you, too."

His voice went coy. "Yeah, it's... I'm still pinching myself."

"So what next?" she asked, mouth turned toward the phone before she caught Nick's eye and slowly leaned down to catch a nipple between her teeth.

His moan made her smile around the tight nub before switching to the other one.

"What the hell, Tash? Are you in bed with--"

"No need to say it aloud, Clint. But the answer is most definitely... 'yes'."

Clint began to laugh and it sounded almost like a donkey braying. Natasha couldn't help joining in. They'd both made it through hell. They might not be completely out the other side, but this was better than she could ever have wished for.

"You go, girl."

"I'd like to. Was there a reason you called?" Her palms skated down Nick's pecs, slid along his ribs, to hover over the cut of his hips. She watched his Adam's apple bob as she lowered her lips to the scar under his right nipple. She'd been there when he'd taken that bullet. She'd been stabbed, Clint'd been shot and Phil was knocked out flat, but she'd taken out the goons that had hurt her team, her family. She'd still burn the world to the ground for these three men, and maybe she'd added a couple of others along the way.

"Clint?" she prompted. "I _am_ busy."

"Oh, right!" he answered, sounding distracted. About damned time Phil got his shit together. "Just wanted to tell you that I'm staying with Phil... um, at his super secret base... for awhile. Just... I don't know how long--"

"You stay as long as you both need you to. I'm not doing this matchmaking bullshit again. You hear me?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am." She could almost hear the mock salute. "Oh, and tell Nick that we're happy for you both."

"He heard you," Natasha said, her eyes going soft around the edges as she looked at Nick; the strongest man she'd ever known and he gave himself up to her without question, without doubt.

"Oooo-kay. I think I've already heard more than I needed to. Be safe," Clint said. "Both of you."

"Later, Solnyshko," she said and the line went dead.

Her grin turned feral as she scooted down Nick's bound body. "Now where were we?"

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _'Dog Days Are Over'_ by Florence and the Machine
> 
> 1 Reference to faeleverte's story "He's a beast". It stuck with me and was so funny, I thought it'd be a fun little wink-wink, nudge-nudge to fandom.  
> 2 Proverbs 20:11


End file.
